


Saccharomyces cerevisiae (Baker's Yeast)

by yaycoffee



Series: Knows His Own [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, More Like Pre-Parentlock, POV John Watson, POV Sally Donovan, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, Pregnancy, Sally Donovan is a whole person in this story, She is one of the main characters, The Occasional Bit of Casework, Unplanned Pregnancy, because that's how babies are made, het!sex in the very first chapter, in case you missed the parentlock tag, it's a one-night stand, johnlock is the only listed relationship for a reason, seriously, very minimal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:19:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, one makes an imprudent decision born of a devastating combination of drink and sentiment.  Sometimes, the consequences of that decision take on a life of their own.  And sometimes, the facing of those consequences shapes every aspect of one's life--from the hugely meaningful down to the seemingly insignificant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Saccharomyces Cerevisiae (by Yaycoffee)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153421) by [The_Consulting_Storyteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Consulting_Storyteller/pseuds/The_Consulting_Storyteller)



> This story is not series three compliant. I began writing it months before it aired, and while I might go back and tweak a few background details, know that this story pretends that series three never happened.
> 
> Many many huge thanks to my wonderful beta Fiona_Fawkes! Your support and encouragement mean the absolute world to me!

When Sally opens the door to The Fox, she is hit by a wall of laughter and music that contrasts sharply with the chilly early autumn quiet outside.  It smells strongly of frying chips and alcohol.  Stale cigarette smoke still clings to the carpets even six years after London’s smoking ban.  It isn’t a nice place, really, but it is the place they always go—for a little comfort to numb the soul-ache of dragging a nine year-old body from a car boot or to bitch about the newest change in paperwork or, as is the case tonight, to celebrate.  This time for Hopkins’s promotion—Detective Sergeant to Detective Inspector.

Sally has tried to be happy for him.  She knows he works hard—he’s a good detective.  But, _so is she_.  She is _bloody_ good, and she’s been at the job longer, closing half-again as many cases as him.  She has done her time, taken pride in her work, followed leads, held the hands of the grieving, and taken down dangerous men twice her size to protect her team.  This is the second time this year she’s been passed over because Hopkins and Simmons have one very important thing (between their legs) that she doesn’t.  She’s actually got a headache from where where she keeps hitting the glass above her, unforgiving and inches thick.

She plasters a smile on her face, waving to Lestrade and Dimmock as she walks to the bar to buy herself a pint.  She might have to turn up here, put on a good show for the team (No hard feelings.  Well done, mate), but she doesn’t have to let anyone buy her a drink; she sure as hell doesn’t want to owe anyone a round.  At the bar, she means to order a lager but asks for a whiskey (double, on the rocks) instead. 

“Been that kind of day, has it?” the bartender asks, setting her drink before her.

 _That kind of career_ , she thinks, but says, “Yeah.  You could say that.”  She lifts the glass and says, “Cheers.”

He smiles at her, and she takes a small sip, relishing the cold burn as it slides down her throat.  Sighing inwardly, she turns back to the laughing, singing bunch of clots at the usual table, and for a moment her smile goes genuine.  She takes a seat next to Lestrade, who nods at her knowingly before pausing a beat and leaning in close to her ear.

“Listen, Donovan,” he says, quietly enough that only she can hear.  “Thanks for coming out.  I really wish it had been you—you know that, right?  I did everything I could.”

She takes another sip of her drink and nods stiffly.  “I know you did.” 

She turns her head when someone comes back to the table with a tray full of tequila shots.  “Another round for _Detective Inspector_ Hopkins,” he shouts.  She passes the shot glass that was handed to her over to Smith, clinging tightly to her own drink as she watches the men around her slam their shots with manly grunts and grimaces.

Fifteen minutes and another round of shots in for the lads, she’s finished her own drink and contemplating another, but she knows she shouldn’t.  She’s got other plans, later.  As if on cue, her phone goes, vibrating in her back pocket.  She smiles at the display, which reads _Phillip Anderson_.  She walks to the loo to get away from the noise and out of earshot from her less-than-sober colleagues. 

“Phillip,” she says, smiling.

“Hey, babe,” he says, voice hushed and short.  Her smile slides from her face.  “I’m so, so sorry, but Michelle’s just come back in with the boys.  Line work on the route out to Cambridge, and she didn’t want to deal with the hassle of hopping coaches with the little ones.  You understand, right?”

Sally should know better by now, but she is _fuming_.  Can’t even one goddamn thing go right today?  Pathetic as it is (as she knows it is), the one thing making this whole mess better was the promise of sex and a bit of uninterrupted time with the one person she really wanted to see.

“That’s the third time this month you’ve canceled on me, you know,” she says plainly.

“I know, I know.  I’m so sorry, babe.”  His voice goes even quieter.  “Listen—I can’t talk long, but can we meet in a couple of days instead?  I can’t wait to see y—”  His voice goes suddenly much louder.  “You’ll see it all there on the report.  Traces of methamphetamine and…  Yes.  Exactly.”

“Fine,” Sally says.

“We can discuss this further when I’m back in the office on Monday, yeah?”

Sally sighs.  “I miss you,” she says, and her words come out sounding far needier than she’d intended.

“Monday, then,” Phillip says, still playacting for his family, and he rings off.  _His family_.  What in the hell does she think she’s doing?  She looks at her reflection in the dirty mirror, a single humourless chuckle escaping her throat.  Not man enough for the Yard, not woman enough for Phillip.  She’s such a fool.

She returns her phone to her pocket and straightens up, bringing her shoulders back, shaking her hair a little.  Purposefully, she walks back to the bar to order another drink—nothing stopping her now, is there? 

The bartender has his back turned, moving nimbly and efficiently behind the counter.  He’s pulling a beer from the taps and pouring posh vodka into a glass.  When he turns round, he sees her and nods to let her know that he’s coming.  She watches him idly as he adds tonic to the highball before handing off the drinks to someone further down the bar.  And, just her luck—they are for Sherlock-bloody-Holmes.  _Of all the pubs in all of London_ , she thinks bitterly, and she only realises that she’s glaring when the bartender interrupts her train of thought. 

“Another whiskey there, love?” he asks.  Sherlock fixes her with that freaky alien stare that he has before walking toward the Met’s table.  This is _really_ not her day.

“Yeah.  A double.”

 She gulps almost half of it in one sip on her way to the table, not remotely worried about nursing a hangover at work; she’d already arranged for the time off. 

 ===

“I already told you,” John says, opening the door to The Fox.  “You don’t have to come along if you’re going to be such a tit all night.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  John won their bet fair and square, and these were the terms—to go to the next pub night.  He does have to go along (he _will_ honour his word to John), but he doesn’t have to like it.  It’s not his fault that John gets annoyed when he actually says these things out loud.

John licks his lips and shakes his head a little.  “All right, fine,” he says, just inside the door.  “I’ll have a stout.  You will try to be civil, please.”  He’s got his stern voice on—sounding like a teacher telling a student off for chatting during the lecture.

Sherlock orders a beer for John and a vodka tonic for himself.  He is unsurprised to see Sally Donovan glaring at him as he turns back to the table.  He says nothing, in the name of civility.

An hour later, Sherlock has stifled fifteen eye rolls and twenty-nine sighs.  This is so _dull_.  He will never understand why people do this sort of thing.  His drink is weak, the music is too loud, and the jokes aren’t even funny (the inebriated are rarely as amusing as they think they are). 

He would have much preferred keeping to this evening’s original plan, which would have included nicking bites off John’s plate of chicken korma in that quiet place round the corner from theirs, both genuinely laughing over the outlandish deductions John makes about their fellow patrons.  _Man in green shirt:  Dog lover, judging by the state of his trousers.  Is planning to marry his Pekingese in a small but tasteful civil ceremony once the tulips start blooming._ John has a way of finding the right clues but twisting them into absurd tales of absolute fiction.  Sherlock knows that it’s on purpose, done to make him smile—which it nearly always does. 

He is not smiling now.  John has finished his pint and is clapping Hopkins on the shoulder in congratulations, and then he’s off to the bar for another round.  Out of his eyeshot, Sherlock does allow both an eye-roll and a sigh—just to get it out of his system. 

“Why are you even here, then, Freak?” comes Sally Donovan’s voice, annoyance edging each word.  She takes the empty seat next to him, apparently to be able to glare from an even closer distance.

“Lost a bet,” he says honestly.

She says nothing but takes a large sip of her drink.  He’s never seen her have more than a half-lager or a shandy, but granted—he doesn’t come to these things often. 

“Whiskey tonight,” he says, eyes falling to her drink before rising slowly back to her eyes, which are glassy.  This is not her first.  “Your third.”

“Yeah,” she says.  “So.”  It sounds like a challenge.

Sherlock hums.  John is taking far too long at the bar.  He lifts his head to see the state of the queue. 

John’s got his drink, but has been waylaid by a busty brunette in a form-fitting yellow jumper.  She’s got a hand splayed across his chest as she laughs at something he said.  Sherlock scowls.  John leans in, taking an age to say something else, and she gets closer to _really hear_ him.  John smiles when she presses her breasts against his chest, elongates her neck as she offers him her ear.  Sherlock turns back to the table.

Sally is looking at him, holding the rim of her highball between the thumb and middle two fingers of her right hand.  She rattles the ice and lifts it to her lips to sip.

“You’re not the only detective round here,” she says, eyes predatory and glistening.

Sherlock wants to tell her to shut up, but when he opens his mouth to speak, he is cut off as she leans closer.  She smells of men’s deodorant (pre-arranged rendezvous with Anderson), but Anderson is nowhere in sight. 

“I’m not _stupid_ , you know,” she continues, her words coming out a little sloppily around the edges.  And then, it all clicks.  She’s been passed over for promotion _and_ been stood up by Anderson in the same day.   He returns her previous glare but doesn’t actually say anything, still keeping his promise of civility.  He wishes she would find some other place to sit.

“I need another drink,” she tells him, very close to his ear to compensate for the noise of the horrendous music.  “Looks like you could use another, too.  It’s on me, Freak.”  Her words hold none of the sting that they usually do.

The brunette has her tongue tracing the shell of John’s ear, and Sherlock only half-notices when Sally presses a fresh drink in his hand; he cannot take his eyes away from the smile on John’s face. 

“Cheers,” she says, clinking his glass dully with her own.  He forces his eyes to hers and downs it all in one go.

Sherlock stands immediately, hands in his pockets as he swings his torso toward the bar.  He swings back to tell Sally, “I’ll get this one.”  Sally merely raises her eyebrows in acceptance as she sips from her own glass.

Laughing, John pries himself from the yellow jumper as Sherlock nears the bar.  His breath smells strongly of beer as he grips Sherlock’s shoulder, leans in closely to his ear.  “I think I’m _in_ here with… Katie,” he says with a cheeky grin.  “Do you mind?”  When Sherlock inhales, he can taste the yeast on John’s breath, warm on his own tongue. 

Sherlock shakes his head dumbly before doing his best to gather up a little dignity from the pit of his stomach.  He blanks his face.  “Of course not,” he manages in his usual clipped drawl.  “I won’t wait up.”  He even manages a cheeky smirk.

John grins widely and returns to the yellow jumper—to Katie—who has not taken her eyes from John, vapid little smile curving seductively, accentuating where her glass has worn the lipstick from the centre of her mouth. 

By the time he returns to the table with his and Sally’s drinks, John has his hand at the small of Katie’s back, already guiding them out the door, hailing a taxi at the kerb.  Through the window, Sherlock watches them climb in together, a tangle of arms and legs and tongues that does not leave his sight even when he shuts his eyes against it. 

This vodka has next to no bite at all when he drains his glass. 

With his drink done and John gone, he realises that he doesn’t have to stay here any longer.  He stands to go, winding his scarf about his neck.  Sally stands with him, swaying a little on her feet.  She falls into his chest, and he steadies her by the shoulder. 

She leans in further for a fraction of a second, nose between the top of his scarf and the bottom of his jaw.   She blinks up at him blearily.  “You all right to get home, Freak?” and now the words sound almost kind.

“I believe I can manage.”

“Share a taxi?”

Sherlock doesn’t know what makes him agree, but he does.

His flat is closer, so the driver takes them toward Baker Street first.

Sherlock can feel the press of Sally’s thigh against his own; she is sitting very close.  He can feel her eyes on him.  When he turns his head to look back, she lifts a cold thumb to his lips, running it along the curve of the bottom one until it warms.  She presses down slightly, a gentle tug, enough that he can just feel air against his lower teeth. 

The cab hits a bump in the road and jostles them so that they’re thrown that much closer together, her thumb falling further, to the slick skin of his inner lip.  He closes his mouth around it and sucks, only slightly.  He does not think about how small it feels, about the press of her too-long nail for a fraction of a second.  She gasps, and after a beat, he releases her.  The driver stops.

“Two-two-one Baker Street.  Twelve pound forty, mate.”

Sherlock hands him the notes and opens the door.  “Cup of tea?” he asks, pleased with his tone—haughty and light.

“I think so, yes,” she says, and she follows him out of the car, ignoring the cabbie’s grumbles at the loss of further fare.

They don’t say a word as Sherlock unlocks the street door, as they climb the stairs, as Sherlock opens the door to the flat.  He closes the door slowly and peels off his coat and scarf, hanging them both on the hook.  Sally removes her coat as well, and Sherlock hangs it on John’s empty hook.

They take a minute to look anywhere but at each other, but the very second Sherlock catches her eye, they’re kissing, deep and greedy.  She kisses his jaw, and he traces the shell of her ear with his tongue, exactly like the brunette at the bar.   

They are naked by the time they fumble their way to Sherlock’s bed, and all Sherlock can think about is warm skin sliding against his own, dark and soft and nearly hairless (he does _not_ think of skin that is golden and scarred, dusted with coarse, sandy curls), of the breath and heat and need that is crackling around them, between them, filling all the gaps.  It is white noise, and it is full blast, hazy with alcohol and too much emotion that has nothing to do with how they feel about each other. 

She comes, gasping, under his tongue.  She comes again when he is deep inside her, shuddering, whispering someone else’s name. 

===

Sally is gone when Sherlock wakes in the morning, and for that he is grateful.  His head is pounding dully, and his mouth tastes like the bottom of the Thames.  He cleans his teeth and showers. 

He is fully dressed with a load of sheets tumbling in the washer when John returns, whistling, just before lunchtime.

===

Three days is nothing, Sally tells herself.

A week.  That happens, right?

Ten days.  She takes a deep breath as she walks into Boots.

Two hours later, she is sat on the closed lid of her toilet.  Its display is digital.  _Pregnant_ , it says.  So does the one sitting on the lip of the sink.

===


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so many thanks to my amazing beta, Fiona_Fawkes whose advice and encouragement keep me going!  
> Also, thanks to SilentAuror, who helped me fret through titling this little story of mine and is just generally a pretty wonderful friend.

Sally checks the display on her ringing phone.  _Dr Moore_.  She’s at a crime scene—flat in Lambeth, robbery-turned-stabbing—which is less than ideal for the conversation she knows is coming.  She should let it go to answerphone, ring back once she gets home, but she _can’t_. 

Lestrade is talking to the grieving widower, and everyone else seems to be busy with procedure, clicking cameras and gathering samples.  She plugs her left ear as she answers, stepping into the empty kitchen for some privacy.  “Sally Donovan,” she says, heart in her throat.  The sounds of the scene are present but muffled through the swinging door.   

It’s been eleven days since the home pregnancy tests, a week since her appointment with the doctor, who told her that the home tests are reliably accurate but took blood and urine samples anyway. 

“Ms Donovan,” the doctor says, her voice friendly and calm.  “How are you feeling?”

Sally chuckles a bit.  “Nervous,” she admits.

“That’s all to be expected.  Well, we’ve had your results in from the lab.”

“Yes.”  In the pause, in the second-and-a-half before Dr Moore responds, every thought she’s had over the past weeks floods her mind like a dam has broken:  She can’t be a mother for so many reasons.  Her job is dangerous.  Her own mother is horrible; she’d have no support at all, wouldn’t want hers.  She barely makes it month-to-month as it is. She’s never been very good with kids.  She would be on her own. 

But then, in the same breath:  She’s not getting any younger.  Waiting could mean never having. 

And then there’s something _else_ , something nearly unnamable, something like second chances and the kind of overwhelming love that’s already deeply rooting itself into every cell of her muscles and bones—sturdy, strong.

“Confirmed positive,” the doctor says without fanfare, professional.  “I know you must have a fair few questions, and I’m available to you any time.”

“Thank you,” Sally says, surprised that she feels so certain so soon about what she’s going to do.  But then again, she’s been thinking of little else since her period was late. 

She is keeping this baby. 

She spends another few minutes arranging her next appointment, feeling like she’s just finished a three-mile run—breathless and dazed, euphoric, and a little nauseated. 

“You all right?” Lestrade asks when she returns to the bloodied lounge. 

She takes a deep breath.  “I will be.”

He gives her a concerned look, brow crinkling beneath his greying fringe.  “I need you to get statements from the neighbours.  Ask them everything they can remember happening between eight and half-nine this morning.”

“On it, boss,” she says on her way out the door. 

===

She’s got her phone resting on the coffee table, and she is staring at it as though they were in an old fashioned spaghetti-western standoff.  She’s never considered herself a coward, but the very idea of making this phone call only further aggravates her already upset stomach.  She’s had the doctor’s confirmation for two days now, has _known_ even longer.  She scoffs at how, at one time, she would have mocked any other woman sitting in her very situation as irresponsible and pathetic.

Phillip is already a father, a husband.  But as complicated at it would make things, telling him would be a thousand times easier than what she knows she’s got to do now.  She knows Phillip.  She trusts him, even if he is a weasely little shit sometimes.  At least she knows what to expect out of him.  But, Phillip is not the person she needs to speak with—that would be _far_ too easy. 

There is no question of who the father is.  Since the night at The Fox, she and Phillip had found some time for one another, but… you can’t get pregnant _that_ way, and besides, even if they’d done what needed doing, Phillip had a vasectomy when his youngest was a baby.  No, it is definitely not Phillip’s.  

You _can_ get pregnant, she knows, when you are too busy to remember to take your pill, too drunk to bother with a condom.

Sherlock Holmes.  Bloody-fucking-hell.

She picks up her phone and scrolls to his name, brings it up on the screen.  She reads it over and over until the screen goes black.  “Shit,” she says, and she stands. 

She puts on her coat and heads out into the autumn chill.

===

John is in his armchair, jabbing away at his laptop, ostensibly to write-up the case they’d just closed, but—how a not-wholly-unintelligent-or-incapable man, who is a _writer_ , could have got through first high school, then university, then med school, the army, _and_ two decades’ worth of email, internet, and social media without ever learning how to type with more than just his first fingers is beyond him.  It is completely illogical.  Conclusion:  he does it to annoy Sherlock—who realises he has now read the same two paragraphs in his book twice now without actually absorbing it, too preoccupied with John and his abhorrent typing. 

He sucks in a breath sharply, pulling himself firmly into the here and now.  “Do you _really_ always type like that?  Even when I’m not here?”

John doesn’t look up from his computer screen, but his fingers do stop their infernal pecking for a moment.  “Sherlock, we’ve had this conversation before.  Yes.  This is how I type.  If it annoys you so much, go away.”

“But—”

“No, Sherlock.  You may _not_ pay for classes, and you _do_ remember what happened the last time you tried teaching me yourself?  So, _no_.  I’m perfectly happy with how I type.  It gets the job done.  Our cases get published, people read them, _like_ them, and then we get _more_ cases so we can occasionally pay a bill or two.”

Sherlock has no reply, so he decides to change the subject.  “Dinner tonight?”  He flips a page in his book.

“Sure.  What sounds good, then?  Curry?  No—let’s go to that new Mediterranean place up the road, next door to the cobbler’s.”

Sherlock hums.  “I haven’t had a decent baba ghannouj in ages.  It’s a date,” Sherlock says, emphasis on the final _t_ , eyeing John sideways over the top of his book.

John doesn’t say _No, it’s not a date_ , but he does pause and shake his head a bit before returning to the task of keyboard abuse.  Confusion?  Acquiescence?  Pity?  Maintaining the status quo?  Sherlock is under no delusion that this is an actual date, but he is pleased to have secured John’s time and attention, nevertheless. 

Sherlock has just turned back to read the previous page again when there is a knock on the door.  He stays in his seat because he doesn’t want to get up; he knows John will answer it.  And, as predicted, John sighs, placing his laptop on the floor next to his chair, and Sherlock pretends to ignore him in favour of reading.

“No, no.  Don’t get up.  I’ll get it,” he says, sarcastic.  But he _is_ doing it.  Sherlock hides his smirk behind his book.

“Sergeant Donovan?  Hello,” he hears John’s voice say, confused.  Sherlock turns his head toward the door.  She takes a hesitant step over the threshold as John continues, “Lestrade said he might have a few more questions on our statements.”

She shakes her head.  “Er, no.  I, er…” She turns her head to Sherlock with a jerky lifting of her chin.  “I need to speak with the fr—with Sherlock.  Privately, please.”

“Sally, I assure you—whatever you need to say can be said in front of John,” Sherlock drawls with an airy sweep of his hand. 

“No,” she says, firm. “Can we just—I need to talk to _you_.  Alone.”

“Is everything all right?” John asks, shifting from Sally’s face to Sherlock’s, worry evident in the subtle straightening of his shoulders. 

“Yeah,” Sally says.  Sherlock is watching her very closely now. 

Sherlock unfolds himself from his chair and crosses the room.  John catches his eye as he puts on his coat and scarf.  Sherlock shrugs.  “I’ll be back in time for dinner,” he says, and he follows Sally back down the stairs and onto the street.

“Can we—get a coffee or something?” Sally asks, not looking at him, heading directly to Speedy’s.

Like a woman on a mission, she strides to the counter and orders while Sherlock takes a seat at his usual table.  But for themselves and Gina behind the counter, the café is empty in the mid-afternoon lull.  Sally returns with a coffee for him, which is uncharacteristically thoughtful of her, and Sherlock accepts it with a nod.  She has a tea for herself, chamomile.  The light floral scent of it reminds Sherlock of his grandmother’s home in Sussex.

They’ve seen each other often since they’d had sex, either at crime scenes or at the NSY offices, and both had done a decent job of pretending as though it had never happened.  It hadn’t even been awkward—simply back to the normal business of open dislike and public insults, if they spoke at all.  He doesn’t really know what to think of this sudden need for a private conversation.

“What is this about, Sally?” Sherlock asks plainly.

She takes a deep breath, eyes on the pale yellow liquid in her cup.  She clears her throat.  “Right,” she says, suddenly looking up, eyes determinedly not moving from his.  “I’m pregnant.  It’s yours.  I’m keeping it.”

Sherlock is not often surprised, but he feels as though someone has punched him directly in the stomach, hard.  He opens his mouth, but for once—words utterly fail him.  “What?”

“I thought you didn’t like it when people repeated themselves,” she says, a mocking smirk twisting the left corner of her mouth upwards.   There is an echo of her trademark nastiness there, but it fades quickly.

“No, I—”  Sherlock swallows the bitter coffee-flavoured lump that is threatening to close his windpipe.  “How is that—?  What about Anderson?”

“It’s not him—there are… reasons.  You’re the only other, er, partner that I’ve had, so...”

“I see,” Sherlock says.  He doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t know what to _do_.  He feels as though he’s floating on a raft in the middle of a tempest, drifting, tossing, _sick_.  Beyond that, he has no idea what feelings he is supposed to feel. 

He knows she’s telling the truth.  She has no reason to lie.  He remembers not using a condom.  She is the first woman he’s slept with since his first year at university, making her the second in total.  Women really are _not_ his area.  “What,” he begins, catches her eyes again, which are steadily narrowing.  “I mean—what do we do?”

She blinks at him, mouth falling open.  She’s surprised.  Why is she?  Was she expecting a row?  Cruelty?  Sherlock supposes though, that her reaction does make sense given their history. 

“Well,” she finally says, shoulders dropping further, hands relaxing around her cup.  “Like I said—I’m definitely keeping it.  I guess you can do whatever you want, which is only what you ever do anyway.  I just thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, but doesn’t really know why.  He wonders if he should feel excited or angry or scared.  He only feels numb, detached. 

“I mean,” Sally goes on.  “I don’t want your money, and you can be involved or not, so…”

“Right.”  Sherlock lets out a breath, stalls by taking a large gulp of his coffee, draining more than half the liquid in the cup.  When he sets it back on the table, the hollow sound of it echoes through the fog that is gathering in clouds around his brain.  Sally waits him out, pointedly turning to watch the woman walking her dog outside, gracing Sherlock with the tiniest illusion of space.

Finally, his mouth begins to compose words.  “I think…”  Sally turns her head back to him, away from the window.  He has her full attention.  “I’d like to be… involved.”  He doesn’t even know what that means.  He doesn’t know anything.  He doesn’t understand not understanding.  He’s on that raft again.

“Well, I’ve got an appointment set for Tuesday at ten.  Come if you want.”

“I—yes.”  He sits with her in silence while she finishes her tea.

===

It’s gone dark, and Sherlock hasn’t returned, which is unusual. 

Sherlock has changed in a lot of little ways with John since his two years away—Oh, he’s still the same Sherlock in all the ways that matter and in most of the ways that annoy.  He still interrupts John’s dates for cases and leaves toxic chemicals next to the teabags and pieces of dead animals lying around like a barn cat’s forgotten presents. But now, he is more likely to tolerate an evening on the sofa in front of the telly, more likely to buy milk. 

And, since John invited him back to Baker Street nearly eight months ago (one month after he’d returned from the dead), he _does not_ run off by himself without warning—ever.  This was the one hard and fast rule that John had laid out.  Sherlock accepted the condition readily, and they’d fallen into this new normal quickly, resuming life-as-it-was, which became life-as-it-is-now so seamlessly that Sherlock’s absence sometimes feels like it was nothing but a very realistic, very bad dream.

John’s not properly worried, not yet, but the whole afternoon had been weird.  Donovan never turns up without Lestrade, never censors her insults of Sherlock for John’s benefit (or anyone else’s).  John can’t imagine that she would purposely seek Sherlock out for help on a case for the Met, which makes him wonder if she has a case of her own.  Does _she_ need a consulting detective? 

John pulls his mobile from his pocket and types a message.  _We still on for dinner?_

After a couple minutes’ wait, he gets a reply.  _Not hungry -SH_

John stifles his annoyance, which is now tinged a bit more strongly with worry because Sherlock is reneging on their evening plans.  _What about our… date? ;-)_  

Emoticons usually send Sherlock into an immediate and relentless three-text rant about the degradation of the English language, but he waits ten minutes without a reply before he shoots off another text. _Is everything alright?_

_I’ll be back soon –SH_

John knows that there’s something Sherlock is keeping from him, and he feels the irritation creep along the surface of his skin.  He really had thought they were done with the cryptic messages like from _before_.  He sighs before punching in his response.  _I’ll get takeaway then.  You can eat it or not but I’m starving._

_Fine –SH_

John figures it was bound to get back to this—Sherlock and his secrets.  He tries not to let it bother him, tries not to worry, but he finds himself shoving his arms into his jacket with a little more force than necessary.  He pounds down the stairs and out the street door, walking in quick strides against the wet autumn wind as he makes his way to the restaurant.  He stops in front of the Mediterranean place to read the posted menu before heading inside where the spicy, garlic-scented air wraps around him like a blanket. 

When he gets back to the flat, it is with a growling stomach and a bag in each hand, full of fresh pita and hummus, labneh and shawarma, and Sherlock’s baba ghannouj.  He bungs the bags of dinner on the kitchen worktop so he can remove his jacket.  When he goes to hang it on the hook by the door, he sees it.  Sherlock’s coat is on its hook. 

“Sherlock?” he calls, but there is no answer.  A quick look around, and he notices Sherlock’s bedroom door is shut where it had been ajar before he’d left to fetch dinner.  He goes to stand before it.  When he calls again to no answer, John is definitely feeling uneasy.  “Just, you know, grunt or something so I know it’s you in there and not some random bloke who stole your coat.” 

Silence. 

“Say ‘ _obvious_.’  Tell me to piss off.” 

Nothing.

John knocks lightly as he grips the handle with one his other hand, turning slowly.  “Hope you’re decent because I’m coming in,” he says as the crack widens.  His nose immediately fills with the odour of fresh cigarette smoke. 

Sherlock is sat in the dark and has pulled his desk chair from the living room to the window where he is perched with his bum on the back, feet on the seat, blowing a thick plume of smoke out the window.  Sherlock takes a drag, the end of the cigarette glowing bright orange in the dark of the room.  He looks as though he is miles away. 

Sherlock slowly turns his head, wrist lighting on his knee as a weak stream of smoke trails from his nostrils when he purses his lips.  “I don’t want you to piss off,” he says flatly, eyes somehow finding John’s even in the dark; they nearly glow in the filtered streetlight from outside.

John’s first instinct is to fuss or chide, to grab the cigarette from Sherlock’s hand and chuck it out the window, but there is something about the shape of Sherlock’s silhouette that stops him—something is not okay.  John shuts the bedroom door again, mostly to keep the smell contained to only one room; Mrs Hudson would have kittens if she knew Sherlock was smoking inside.

John crosses the room slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time and space to either tell him to leave or to flee for himself.  Sherlock doesn’t do either, simply lifts the cigarette to his lips again.

“I thought you’d given up,” John says cautiously, switching on the corner lamp before taking a seat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. The haze of smoke looks heavier in the light.

Sherlock does not turn to face him.  “I had.”

“Right,” John says, leaning forward a bit, resting his forearms on his knees as he lightly interlaces his fingers.  “So, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock tosses the cigarette butt into the teacup he’s using as an ashtray.  It lands with a hiss, and Sherlock immediately lights another.

John waits.  He lets the quiet sound of their breaths and the barely-there crackle of burning paper fill the space.

“I never liked cigars,” Sherlock finally says, each word holding a certain clipped emphasis.

“What?” John says, thrown by the non sequitur. 

Sherlock releases a humourless chuckle, blows another stream of smoke, bluish white, out the window.  “Tradition, John,” he says.

“I’m… not following, Sherlock.”  He waits for Sherlock’s quip about his lack of intelligence, but it never comes.

In the quiet, Sherlock’s voice barely breaks through, but John hears him clearly.  “It would seem as though I’m going to be a father.”

If anything, John is more confused than before the explanation.  He clears his throat.  “Sorry.  But, _what_?”

Sherlock stands then, cigarette clamped tightly between his lips as he twirls the chair with the speed of a top until it is directly in front of John.  He sits back down heavily, removing the cigarette from his mouth, heedless of the ash falling to the floor when his forearm hits the armrest.  “I am going to be a father.”

John knows he’s gaping.  He shakes his head jerkily, as if he could somehow physically rearrange the information inside into something that makes sense.  Sherlock must take his silence as a plea for further information because he begins again.

“Sally Donovan is pregnant, and it is mine.”

John’s chest contracts, and his stomach drops.  He feels breathless, and he has no idea why.  “How is… Wha… I mean, how…”

Sherlock smirks then, an earnest display of humour.  “Yes.  Do exactly that for about four hours, and we’ll be all caught up.”  He tosses this cigarette into the cup to join the other.  _Hiss_.

John shakes his head again.  “I didn’t think you were… I mean I always thought you were g—married to your work.  Are you _seeing_ Sally Donovan?”

“I see her all the time,” Sherlock replies, blinking owlishly for a moment.  “But I assume you mean to ask if we’re in a relationship of a romantic and/or sexual nature.  The answer to that question is no.”

“You do know _where_ babies come from, right?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but then schools his face into something completely serious.  “We had sex once.  Weeks ago.”

“Right,” John says slowly.  And then, before he can stop the word, “Why?”  He tries to recover by clarifying, “As far as anyone could tell you two… hate each other.”

Sherlock mumbles something so low and quick that John can’t hear him properly.  He reaches for a new cigarette and lights it, standing to turn back to the window.  This time John goes with him, taking the two steps that bring him right beside his friend.  He plucks the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers, and Sherlock’s eyes are on him intensely as he lifts the thing to his lips and takes a drag.

John hasn’t smoked since his early days in the army.  He winces at the bite of nicotine that sends too much saliva to the back of his throat, grimaces as he swallows it down.  He takes another drag.

“You don’t smoke,” Sherlock says, eyeing him skeptically.

“Tradition,” John replies with a small smile, placing the thing between his thumb and forefinger, twiddling it like a cigar.

Sherlock lifts one corner of his mouth.  He pulls the chair back over and sits while John continues smoking, lighting another one for himself. 

John starts a bit when Sherlock leans his head to rest against John’s hip, but the weight of it is something that is somehow better than comfortable, grounding him as the nicotine makes his head feel like it’s floating.  At the next drag, John pulls the cigarette from his lips with his left hand so he can rest his right on Sherlock’s head, dark curls winding around John’s fingers automatically.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock says, quiet again.

“You’ll figure it out,” John says, hand sliding down to Sherlock’s nape where he squeezes lightly.  “You always do.”

“We will,” Sherlock says, taking another drag as he rocks his temple against John’s hip once. 

===

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The exchange where John babbles moronically at the idea of the pregnancy and Sherlock tells him, "Do exactly that for about four hours, and we’ll be all caught up." is basically a re-worded _Friends_ joke from 1x02. I didn't even mean to/notice that I'd used it until happening upon a rerun of that episode later. So, credit where credit is due, _Friends_ writers: you have effectively commandeered my subconscious. 
> 
> 2\. Now that the second chapter is up, I'll be posting subsequent chapters weekly--probably on Wednesdays. 
> 
> 3\. I cherish all of your kind words, comments, and kudos! Thank you so much for a warm reception of a story that I was sure only about four people would want to read <3


	3. Chapter 3

Sally fights a wave of nausea as she bends down to lift a cigarette butt and place it in a plastic bag.  Her stomach does not like her stooping, especially at half-ten in the morning.  Straightening slowly, she sips from the thermos of the herbal tea her doctor recommended, specially blended for pregnancy.  It tastes of licorice and mint, and while it is not a sufficient substitute for the strong cup of coffee she’d really wanted, she does feel her stomach settle some with each small sip. 

Before she even fastens the bag, Phillip is at her side.  He is meant to be gathering swabbings and dusting for prints on the other end of the play park, but here he is. 

He leans in close to her when he speaks.  “Michelle’s going out with the boys to the cinema tonight.  Told her I had a late meeting and was going to meet some friends for a drink.  Fancy a takeaway and a film at yours?”

Sally sighs, making her way to put her gathered evidence in the designated spot.  “I’m really not feeling well,” she says truthfully.   “I don’t think tonight would be a good one for me.”

Phillip’s face falls a bit, but he leans in again.  “We haven’t had any alone time in ages.”  He is near to whinging, but when he speaks again, he’s pitched his voice lower.  “I could come over and… take care of you.  Since you’re feeling ill.”  He lets his index finger brush the back of her hand in the tiniest caress, one that his body blocks from the view of their roving colleagues working the crime scene.  Sally hesitates a beat before pulling her hand away. 

If they’d had this conversation a month ago, even a week ago, Sally probably would have jumped at the chance.  She liked being taken care of.  She _liked_ spending time with Phillip, but she’d made a decision for herself when she decided that she was going to be a parent.  She has to break it off with him for good.  It was never the proudest decision she’d ever made, taking up with a married man.  She’d given up ages ago on their affair ever becoming anything more, and maybe the baby is just the excuse she needed to do what she knows she must.  She doesn’t want to tell him—not yet; she still doesn’t want to tell anyone at work.  And, that was who Phillip must become to her now—just another coworker. 

But before she even begins her second refusal, Phillip is speaking again, tone entirely changed.  “Oh, wonderful,” he says, his voice loud and drawling.  “If it isn’t our consulting psychopath and his _boyfriend_ coming to tell the professionals how to do their jobs.”

Sally swivels her head to see Sherlock and Watson speaking with Lestrade.  She doesn’t know why Lestrade would have called him in at this point—they’d only just started.  The team hadn’t even been here long enough to start looking at the evidence properly.  Curious, she walks a bit closer to where they were in order to hear Lestrade as he speaks with them, Phillip following just behind.

“It’s early yet, but, I want this one wrapped up quickly.  There’s a primary school just round the corner and half of the parents take their kids by this park on their ways home.  I want to get the body cleared and have this place looking as little like a crime scene as possible when those kids get out.  We’ve got four hours.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond but to spin where he stands, moving directly to the body, looming over it like a vulture sniffing out the tastiest bits of carrion.   As Sherlock crouches by the man’s head, Lestrade continues. “Male.  Late thirties.  No I.D.  Cause of death is assumed to be that great fuck-off gash some bastard put in his abdomen.”

Sherlock only grunts in response before moving along the length of the body, lens in hand, until he’s got his nose nearly inside the poor sod’s wound.  He then stands, abruptly spinning again, stepping very carefully until he is at the guy’s feet.  He narrows his eyes and then bends down again, examining his shoes.  Watson is following slowly, hands clasped behind his back as he watches Sherlock work.

Phillip leans in closely again to Sally’s ear, lowering his voice, but only a bit.  “Do you think this counts as foreplay for them?  I bet they go at it like rabbits once they get back to that flat of theirs.  Freaks.”

Sally flinches as John Watson’s head snaps towards them, clearly having heard the gibe.  His eyes flash as he glares at Phillip, jaw working.  Sally turns away, somehow unable to look at him.  She doesn’t really want to look at Phillip either, so instead, she fumbles with the clasp on her thermos that clicks it open and shut with the slide of a button.  She lets her eyes light on a pigeon that has landed on one of the benches surrounding the play area. 

Phillip nudges her with his shoulder, and though she does turn back to him then, she says nothing.  She feels both Phillip’s and Watson’s eyes on her, and she is actually relieved to hear Sherlock Holmes’s voice  when he speaks again, pulling Watson’s focus, at least, back to the task at hand.

“What do you observe, John?” Sherlock asks, apparently unaware of Phillip’s nasty comments and Watson’s silent rage.

Sally hears Phillip sigh.  “Oh, here we go,” he says. 

At this, Watson doesn’t keep quiet.  “Do you have something you’d like to _say_ to one or both of us, Anderson?  Or are you just going to keep mouthing off at a volume just loud enough to show how much of a cowardly _tit_ you really are?”

Phillip balks a bit at being called to the carpet but doesn’t shrink away.  He visibly steels himself, straightening up to full height saying, “Well, he could _ask the_ _forensics expert_ that has been working this scene from the start rather than completely ignoring the work we’ve already done.”  That trace of a whinge is back in his voice.

Until now, Sally had thought Sherlock was oblivious of their conversation because he’d been so fixated on the corpse, but, eyes still on the body, he speaks, clear and deliberate.  “John _is_ an expert, and one who hasn’t already allowed the position of the body to be moved prematurely.” 

At this, Sherlock stands tall, snapping his gloves off.  He steps in closer to where she and Phillip are standing, eyes like lasers aimed at Phillip.  “Honestly, I wonder at how you manage to get your shoes on the proper feet each morning.”

By way of explanation, Sherlock steps back toward the body once more, pointing.  “His hands.  _Look_.  They were clearly positioned here from the start, judging by the indention and drag line in the gravel.  Clearly, someone has moved it.  Furthermore, if you had even the tiniest modicum of competence, you would have noticed, based on the size and position of the wound and the evidence surrounding it—”

“He wasn’t killed here,” Watson finishes for him, a little breathless as the realisation dawns on him.

“Yes.  Tell me why.”  The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches for a fraction of a second.

Watson crouches down, closer to the body.  “Well, there isn’t nearly enough blood.”  Watson sniffs at the corpse’s mouth and examines its hands.  “No sign or smell of vomit or drug.  And skin tone, as well as the pre and post-mortem bruising patterns around the wound indicate that he would have bled out as cause of death.  There should be a lot more blood.”

“Very good, John,” Sherlock says, and Watson smiles.  “Additionally, look at his shoes—this.  There’s mud caked in the soles but no gravel.  If he had come through the muddy park and then into the play area on his own, the mud here would be imbedded with gravel.”

“But then, why would the murderer drag him here—to a play park of all places?” Sally asks, noticing for the first time what she hadn’t before.  They really _should_ have caught that.

“Ah, Sally—now you’re asking the _right_ questions.”

Sherlock turns toward Lestrade, “You can go ahead and have the coroner transfer the body to Bart’s.  I’ll be along later to have a closer look.”

“You can’t move the body until _I_ say you can.”  Phillip was nearly pleading with Lestrade, “We still need to—“

“Look, Anderson,” Lestrade says.  “Sherlock’s right.  If the poor bastard wasn’t killed here, then let’s get the area photographed and bagged as quickly as possible, but the faster we can figure out who this guy was, the better.  We can get him to the lab for the proper tests—maybe something will come up to get us an I.D.”

Sherlock says, “There is still quite a lot of evidence to gather here, Lestrade.  Surely you can’t be suggesting a rush simply because people might _happen by_.”

Lestrade looks heavenward for a moment before leveling his eyes back on Sherlock.  “That isn’t at all what I’m suggesting, and you know it.  But, if there’s any way to get this body to the morgue before those kids start coming through here, we need to do it.  And, I’m going to need you two ladies to stop with the bickering for the sake of efficiency, since my actual sanity is clearly of no concern.”

Phillip puffs up, sticking his chest out a bit.  “I know I wouldn’t want one of my boys to see a dead body on their way home from school.  They’re only young once.”  He sighs, continuing, “I guess you’d have to be a father to understand.”

Sally watches the colour drain from Sherlock’s face, and she silently wills Phillip to just leave it, but he doesn’t.  Of course he doesn’t.

His voice takes on that overly-nasal inflection he adopts when he’s trying to prove a point.  It’s always worse when Sherlock Holmes is involved.  “After all, what would you know about wanting to protect your kids from seeing something like this?  No, you probably want to take pictures home with you to help you get off on them later tonight, isn’t that right, Freak?”

Sally didn’t even notice John Watson rear back for the punch until Sherlock caught his wrist from the side, mid-swing.  She takes a step back as Sherlock calmly steps in front of Watson, guiding his arm back down to his side.  Watson nods stiffly, and Sherlock releases him.  He is still glaring daggers at Phillip, who is looking from Sally to Lestrade, trying to find some support. 

When someone calls Lestrade’s name from the other side of the park, he hesitates for a moment before going, jabbing his index finger at Sherlock, Watson, and Phillip before turning to where he’s needed.  Sally hears him say, “Fucking _children_.  Christ,” as he walks away.

It’s only a second later when Sherlock steps directly into Phillip’s space so that they are nearly nose-to-nose. His voice goes even deeper than usual, growling dangerously.  “Anderson, I would advise you to _not_ talk about what you don’t understand, which in your case is everything.  I understand more than you know about doing whatever it takes to protect the people I love, _including_ my child.”

“Oh, come off it, you psychopathic arsehole.  You never do anything for anyone but yourself.”  Phillip lets out a huff of bitter laughter, shooting Sally another back-me-up-here look.  But, Sally can’t join him in this now.  She feels sick again.  “And, there is _no way_ you’re a father,” Phillip says.

Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat, smirking devilishly.  “Oh, no?” he asks, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe.  “Perhaps you two should work in a little extra time for conversation next time the wife is away.”  And at that, he spins on his heel and turns away, guiding Watson for just a moment with a hand on his shoulder until they are walking side-by-side on the path that leads to the main road.

Sally fumes as she watches the fabric of his coat billow out from behind him.  How _dare_ he!  That was not his business to share.  She ignores the little voice in the back of her brain that traitorously supplies, _yes, it actually was_.

“What the hell is he on about?”  When Phillip caught sight of her face properly, he steps closer.  “Sally?”

“I didn’t—”  She falters, clears her throat.  “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

“Find what out?”

She can’t look at him, so she looks at the ground instead.  “I’m pregnant.  It’s… it’s his.”  When she lifts her head again, Phillip’s mouth is hanging open; his expression would be almost comical if Sally’s stomach wasn’t threatening to expel every sip of her tea to further muck up the crime scene.

He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a puff of air from his cheeks.  “ _Him_?  You’re sleeping with him?”

“Only once,” she says, shaking her head.  “We’re not together.” 

“With _him_ ,” Phillip says again, face twisted and so red it’s nearing purple.  “I can’t believe—”

At this, Sally cuts him off, a moment of clarity cutting through whatever it normally is that she feels for this man.  “Are you angry with me for sleeping with someone else?”  She fights the strange urge to laugh.  “That really would be rich coming from you.  Or, are you angry that it was with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t—”

Sally looks around the park, suddenly aware that they are not having this conversation in private.  Thankfully, everyone seems to be busy with their own work, and she lets out a breath, calming down. 

When she looks back to Phillip, she can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for him.  She puts a hand on his arm, and when she speaks again, it is with a little sadness and more than a little resignation. “Look, we both knew we couldn’t keep this up forever.  Go home to your wife and kids, Phillip.  Maybe you can catch up with them at the cinema tonight.  _This_ is over.”  She leaves him where he’s standing as she makes her way back over to where Lestrade is speaking with the coroner, the taste of mint and licorice sharp and clean in her mouth as she takes the last sip from her thermos.

====

The journey back to Baker Street is a quiet one.  John absently watches the city roll by as the dull buzz of anger still vibrates at the base of his spine.  John’s fuse is generally a long one, but once lit, the blaze always takes some time to abate.  What he needs is to walk it off; the sitting isn’t helping anything. 

Sherlock seems, as usual, to have completely refocused—already texting or researching or whatever he does that keeps him completely absorbed in that phone of his—while John’s mind has set on a replay loop Anderson’s hateful words and Donovan’s just standing there without saying anything.  It all blurs against the memory of the last time Anderson and Donovan got their knickers in a collective twist about Sherlock, how their immaturity and hatred had landed him without his best friend for two years.

John knows that Sherlock felt the sting as well; he could see it in his eyes, hear it in the tone of his voice as he verbally cut Anderson down to the quick.  John hardly remembers anything after hearing Anderson call Sherlock _freak_ other than Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped solidly around his wrist.

He remembers the calm that shot through him at the time, making it possible for him to take a bit of a mental breath.  And, he thinks again about Sally Donovan, and he wonders if her current situation has even the slightest effect on her perspective.  And not for the first time, he wonders again what on earth must have happened for Sherlock to actually have shagged her.  The taxi pulls up outside of 221, and Sherlock springs forward, leaving John to pay the fare. 

When John makes it up to the flat, Sherlock has already managed to swap his suit jacket for his dressing gown.  It flutters behind him as he walks with his open laptop from the desk to the kitchen.  He balances it in one hand to turn on the microscope before finally setting it on the kitchen table, all without so much as even glancing in John’s direction.

 Irritated by the entire morning, John flips the switch on the kettle before pulling mugs from the cupboard and rummaging around for teabags and a spoon.

“You could take that walk now,” Sherlock says, back turned to him as he retrieves several new slides from a box on the kitchen table.

“What?” John asks.

“You’re still upset.  You walk when you’re upset.  You could do that now.”

“Yes,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Thank you,” and he is completely aware that he is ridiculously annoyed by a perfectly reasonable suggestion.  “I’ll stick with tea for the moment.”

“Suit yourself.”  Sherlock scrapes soil samples from the scene onto slides.

“Why doesn’t it _bother_ you?” John asks, and Sherlock is quiet for long enough that John wonders if he’d even heard the question, already lost to the work. 

“It does,” Sherlock finally says.  He looks up from the microscope, fully focused on John.

John shakes his head.  “You should have let me punch him,” he says, and he hands Sherlock a mug, lets his own warm his fingers where they press against it. 

“As much as it amuses me when you defend my honour, punching Anderson would have got us kicked off the scene,” Sherlock says with a small shrug.

John doesn’t really know why he says it, but the words come out before he can stop them.  “You’re not a freak.”

Sherlock blinks at him.  “I am,” he says slowly.  “Just not in the way he implied.”  He sips from his mug.  “Is that what bothers you?”

“Of course that’s what bothers me.  Well, that and sodding Sally Donovan.  She just stood there.  I can’t believe you and she…  _How_ did that even happen?”

Sherlock sighs, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand, turning back to his slides.  “The same way it usually does, I assure you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock looks up again.  “John, please.”  His eyes are boring into John’s.  “Leave it.”

John wants to leave it, he really does.  But there is something uncomfortable niggling in the pit of his stomach.  It does not settle well with this uneasy anger he can’t seem to shake.  “What aren’t you telling me, Sherlock?”  He holds Sherlock’s gaze, stubbornly refusing to break it.

Sherlock doesn’t back away either.  “I asked you to leave it.  I even said please.”  There’s no anger in his voice, but John recognises the statement as the end of the conversation unless he chooses to turn it into a row.  

“Fine.” 

Sherlock presses his lips together, nodding slightly in acceptance before turning back to his work. 

John stills for a moment as he passes under the doorway, tapping twice on the wooden edge of the door jamb with two fingers, hesitant.  “I’m here, Sherlock,” he says into the empty living room.  “If you ever want to talk about it.”

As he takes the step that places him solidly out of the kitchen, John hears Sherlock let out a small sigh.

====

The next morning, Sally signs her name at the desk and takes a seat in the waiting room.  She isn’t surprised that Sherlock isn’t here, not after yesterday’s crime scene, and she wonders how on earth this whole thing is ever going to work.  He said he wanted to be involved.  She’s not sure that he understands what that means.  She knows she doesn’t.

On the coffee table, there are dozens of magazines on parenting and fashion and celebrity gossip.  She lifts the _Hello!_ and mindlessly reads all about Victoria Beckham’s _Fashion Faves_.  It helps to keep her from staring at the other women and couples in the waiting room.  It keeps her hands busy, but her left foot shakes restlessly anyway.

She’s been sat for twenty minutes when Sherlock strides into the waiting room like he owns the place.  He drapes his coat over his arm and takes the seat next to her with a nod of his head.  “Sally.”

“I wondered if you’d actually turn up,” she says to him, resting her magazine on her knee.  He eyes it with open distain.  Though she is still angry that he outed them to Anderson, she is surprised at the uncoiling feeling of relief at his presence.  When she’d called last night to tell her sister in York about the pregnancy, it hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped.  Sally hadn’t realised how much of her own social life she’d neglected for the Yard and for Phillip until she found that she really didn’t have anyone to confide in these past weeks.

“I said I would be here,” he says.

“You were late.”

“I was working.”

Like she didn’t have work of her own that she had to get out of to be here.  “Was it something to do with the actual case, or is it more eyeballs in the microwave.  Earlobes in the bread bin?”  She raises an eyebrow, lets her lip curl upwards.  She remembers all too well the state of that flat.

“Don’t be ridiculous; ears go in the refrigerator,” Sherlock says with a flippant wave of his hand, as if she is the one being _ridiculous_ for discussing human body-part storage in a residential kitchen.  Then, more quietly, almost under his breath, he adds, “Otherwise they go off, and John gets cross.”

She lets out a quick bark of laughter.  “Well, you’re here, I guess.”

“Yes,” he says.  “Case is solved, by the way.  Drugs deal gone bad.  One of the parents from the school was being sent a message about non-payment.  I texted Lestrade the details in the taxi.”

“Okay,” Sally says, and she can’t think of a single thing else to say.  They sit in awkward silence as they wait.  Sally opens her magazine again, flipping the pages without really reading anything.

It isn’t long before the nurse calls her back.  Sherlock stands to follow. 

Immediately, the nurse stops her at the scales.  Sherlock stops too, and suddenly she is very aware that this almost-stranger, this _absolute wanker_ , is going to know far too much about her private life.  She crosses her arms and turns to face him.  “Do you mind?” she bites.

Sherlock rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh.  “You weigh nine-stone-six, give or take two pounds.”  But, then he does turn around.  The nurse eyes them curiously but says nothing as Sally steps on the scale. 

Sally could throttle her when she actually murmurs, “Crikey, how did he _do_ that?” as she jots down the numbers. 

It only becomes more uncomfortable when they are left alone in the examination room with instructions for Sally to change from her clothes into the gown.  Thankfully, there is a little dressing room with a saloon door for privacy, but when she comes out, she is clutching the gown closed as she gracelessly perches on the examining table, the paper beneath her bum crinkling loudly in the small room. 

Sherlock has his back to her, furiously reading posters explaining women’s anatomy and the stages of pregnancy.  He stops at a physical model of reproductive anatomy, complete with alien-looking fetus, and picks it up.  He holds it above his head, examining it from every angle the same way she’s seen him do with evidence at crime scenes.  He makes a small sound of excitement when he discovers that the thing comes apart into pieces, and he disassembles the thing in its entirety, laying each piece out on the small worktop. 

Sally clears her throat, and Sherlock turns his head.  “ _What_?” he asks, petulant.

“Are you _five_?” she counters. 

“They wouldn’t have it out if they didn’t intend on it actually being used.  This is year-ten health curriculum that I deleted ages ago.”  He shrugs.  “Now, it’s relevant data.”  He fits the uterine lining back into the fleshy-coloured mould.

“Data,” Sally repeats.

Sherlock inhales to reply but is interrupted by a knock on the door followed by Dr Moore’s entrance.  She is a no-nonsense looking woman of about fifty, blonde hair in a neat twist and crisp white coat over a fashionable blouse and skirt.  It makes Sally even more aware of her mauve cotton examination gown.

“Hello, Sally,” she says kindly.  “How are you feeling today?”

“Stomach’s a bit tetchy, but other than that, I guess I’m all right.”

“That’s normal,” Dr Moore says, smiling.  Her eyes light on Sherlock.  “Lisa Moore,” she says, holding out her hand.  “I’m assuming you’re the father?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock says, shaking her offered hand.  “Yes.”

“We’re not together,” Sally blurts.  If Dr Moore is surprised at all, she hides it well. 

“Okay,” she says.  Then, she goes on to explain the testing and exams she’s going to do.  She instructs Sally to lie back as she exits the room with a promise to be back soon.

“Could you—” Sally says to Sherlock, who has continued his reassembly of the plastic womb, “come and stand over here.  Away from my… feet?”  Sherlock’s face blanches as he realises her reasoning.  He nods silently and moves quickly.

When Dr Moore returns, she has a nurse with her—a young girl with a pony tail and flowery scrubs who is dragging a sonogram machine on a cart.  Sherlock does avert his gaze for the exam, looking frustratingly at ease, not fidgeting or looking awkward at all, simply keeping his eyes turned away. 

“Now,” the doctor says.  “We’re going to do a sonogram so you can get your first look at your little one.  If we’re lucky, we might even get a heartbeat today.  It’s a fair few weeks yet before we can do one externally, so this will be an internal sonogram.”

Sally nods.  Sherlock stays steadfastly by her head.  He’s not at all touching her, but he is close enough that she can feel his body heat.

The nurse flicks a switch, and the machine comes to life, the monitor lighting up.  Sally feels her heart rate begin to increase.  She swallows. 

The procedure is a bit uncomfortable, especially with Sherlock hovering above her head, but he is fixated on the monitor screen.  After a moment, the screen goes from nonsensical blur to exactly what she has seen in countless television shows and movies—it looks like a sonogram, a triangle of fanned out blobs in black, white, and grey, ever changing.  It doesn’t look at all like a baby.

“It’s all looking really good,” the doctor assures her.  “I’d say baby is healthy and growing normally.  Now, let’s see if we can find that heartbeat.”  The nurse shifts a bit, and Sally holds her breath.  It’s silent for a long moment, but suddenly, the thrum of a small heartbeat fills the space, fast and soft. 

“Oh, my God,” Sally says, releasing a breath in time with Sherlock, and she risks looking at him.  His mouth is open in wonder, and he is leaning toward the monitor.  He lifts one long finger to a little pulsing flutter on the screen.  “Here,” he says.

 “Very good, Dad,” Dr Moore says.  Sherlock nods and looks back at Sally. 

She isn’t even aware that she’s crying until she feels a tear roll down her left cheek.    

“Oh, my God,” Sherlock says, eyes fixed once again on the monitor—on the pulsing there, just left of centre.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again to SuperBeta, Fiona_Fawkes!
> 
> And thank you so much to everyone who has read and left kudos and comments! You are wonderful! I cannot even begin to express how much every single one of those things makes my day! *big squishy cuddles*

Sherlock shows up on time for the next doctor’s appointment, though he does, thankfully, choose to stay in the waiting room until the exam is over this time.  He comes in on the heels of Dr Moore just after Sally has re-dressed. 

“Everything is moving along perfectly, Sally,” the doctor says, eyeing her chart.  Sherlock is reading it over her shoulder.  The moment she sets it on the counter, he snaps it up, flicking through the pages quickly.

Dr Moore does not seem like the kind of woman who gives into dithering on any sort of usual basis, but she stares at him and then shifts her eyes back to Sally, clearly concerned about privacy and consent.  Sally nods her head, allowing it—if Sherlock Holmes wanted the information in her chart, she knows he would find a way to get it.  She figures this way, it saves her a midnight call from someone up at the Yard to tell her that he’s set off the office security alarms, her file in hand.

The doctor gives Sherlock one last look before turning fully back to Sally.  “Like I said, it’s all looking really good.  Baby is healthy, and you are right on-track.  Do you have any questions or concerns?”

“I haven’t really started showing yet,” Sally says.  “Is that normal?”

“Of course it’s normal,” Sherlock says, eyes still on the pages he’s flipping through before the doctor can get a word in edgewise.  “Most women don’t start to show until fourteen weeks, on average.  Have you really not read up on this yet?”  He looks up at her, eyes boring into her so fiercely that she feels as though he’s actually looking at her insides instead of her face.  It’s creepy and annoying.

Sally scowls at him.  “I do have a job, you know.”

“Yes, and I’m at it with you much of the time,” he drawls low, under his breath.  Git. 

“Right,” Dr Moore interjects. “Sherlock is _partially_ correct.  It isn’t unusual for some women to show at twelve weeks, which is just where you are; however, since this is your first pregnancy, it will likely be a couple of weeks yet before you have to worry about finding new clothes.  But,” she pauses long enough, staring over at Sherlock, that he reluctantly shuts the folder and spares her a glance.  “You are at the end of your first trimester.  This is usually when couples share the happy news with family, friends, and co-workers since the greatest danger of miscarriage has passed.”

“Oh,” Sally says weakly, barely more than a breath. “Okay.”  She’s unsure about whether or not she is ready for everyone to know.  Just the idea of it makes her feel a bit uneasy.  She knows she won’t be able to hide it forever, but she can’t help but think that this really isn’t anyone else’s business.

Sherlock is quiet for the remainder of the appointment.  In the lift back down to the lobby, he says, “Mrs Hudson and John have made something of a tradition out of having people over to our flat for Christmas drinks.  It’s small—Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade, Molly.”  He pauses, very briefly.  “Perhaps we could tell them there?  Though, I’ve already told John.  Obviously.”  He pauses a moment before continuing, “I think it would be… nice… to tell them.”

“I’m not sure I want the whole Yard to know just yet.”  The lift dings, and the doors open.  The conversation breaks for them to exit, but Sherlock stops again in the lobby, turning toward her. 

“I believe Lestrade would keep the information to himself until you’re ready,” Sherlock says evenly.  It still feels weird on the occasions where they talk like this—an actual, two-sided discussion, as if he is actually _capable_ of listening and taking turns and all of those other basic conversational skills she never would have believed of him before this.

Sally considers it.  Lestrade is a good man.  He wouldn’t talk about the news if she told him she’d rather wait; he’s not a gossip (unlike Phillip, whose silence on the issue so far, Sally assumes, has more to do with wounded pride than any actual concern for Sally’s privacy).  She does consider Lestrade a friend, which, she reminds herself, she can’t say about many people these days.  Sherlock is right—it would be nice to share this with a few others. It’s time, and this small group of trustworthy people should be the first to know what’s going on.  “Yeah,” she agrees.  “I guess we could tell them.”

“Do you have anyone you’d like to invite?”

Sally wishes she had someone, but she doesn’t—not really.  It’s embarrassing that Sherlock Holmes has more friends than she does.  She could, just for show, invite one of her old friends from school that she sees for the occasional pint, but no—that would make things even more awkward, she thinks. 

Then, she remembers the disastrous conversation she’d had with her sister, Alice, a few weeks ago.  “Not really,” she admits.  “I’ve got a sister—Alice.  She wasn’t… overly thrilled.  Besides, she all the way in York with her own family.”  She doesn’t share that things with her sister are slowly getting a little easier; it’s still too shaky to call it _good_.  “I’m going up there for the holiday.”

Sherlock groans, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. 

“What?”

“Mycroft.  My brother.  I suppose I’ll have to tell him eventually as well.  And my parents.”  Sally blinks at him.  How could he have told Watson and not his family?

“You could have them over for the party.”  Sally shrugs. 

“No, my parents are away for the winter in Spain, and I think it’s best to leave Mycroft in the dark for now.  If his little CCTV monitor monkeys haven’t figured out what’s going on yet…” he lets his words trail away in favour of wiggling his fingers in front of him.  “Oh,” Sherlock claps his gloved hands in front of his face once.  “He will be absolutely beside himself that he didn’t see it.”  He looks positively gleeful.  

Though she understands each of the words he’s just said as individual entities (CCTV. Monitor. Monkeys.), she has _no idea_ what he’s actually talking about.  She’s fairly sure she doesn’t want to. Families can bring out the strangest sides of people, Sally supposes.  And, here she thought Sherlock Holmes couldn’t get any bloody weirder.  She shakes her head as she makes her way to the front door, opening it to a cold, wet wind that stings her cheeks.

“So, no families—for now,” Sally says, pausing as she lifts her arm for a taxi.

A black cab pulls up to the kerb, and Sherlock says, “It will be next week—on the twenty-third.  Our flat, eight o’clock.”

“I’ll see you there, I guess.”

“Goodbye, Sally,” Sherlock says as she climbs in, telling the driver to take her to New Scotland Yard.

====

John is muttering under his breath as he strains on the stepladder to string the last of the fairy lights in the window.  “Give me a hand with these, would you?”

He’s wearing that absolutely hideous Christmas jumper of his.  Its overt festivity is in direct opposition with the intense look of scorn John is giving to the tangled mass of wire and lights with which he’s been wrestling.  Sherlock has been watching the show for a quarter of an hour now from where he’s sat in his armchair, legs crossed, completely entertained.

Sherlock has barely even brought himself to standing when John unceremoniously chucks the lot of them into his hands.  “Just, I dunno—hold them out or something.  They keep getting… _bloody tangled_.”  Sherlock needs the other end of the string loose if he’s going to be able to work the knots out. 

“Here,” Sherlock says, placing a hand on the back of John’s arm, guiding him off the ladder.  Sherlock hands him back the lump as he steps up once and easily unhooks the lights that are still half-strung in the window.  _Tall bastard_ , he hears John mutter but ignores it.  He takes a step back, spreading out the wire as far as it will go so he can see what the next step should be.  Ah.  Right. 

“Now, bring this bit here, and—” Sherlock cuts himself off in favour of passing the wire under John’s arm, through a loop in the jumble. 

“Okay,” John says, catching on.  He moves part of his end over Sherlock’s head, stepping in close to do so, and with a few more twists and ducks and spins, the lights are free—one long string at last. 

“Thanks,” John says as he steps back up on the ladder.  Sherlock feeds him the line as John strings them up, framing the window neatly.

After they’re finished, they stand back to look at their handiwork.   John squeezes him on the shoulder and hums an off-key “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas.”  He is close again, and Sherlock takes a moment to notice the clean bar soap and tea smell of him before snapping the ladder up and spinning away to put it back in the cupboard.

An hour later, Mrs Hudson is the first to arrive with a light “hoo-hoo” and a knock on the open doorframe as she balances a large tray of mince pies and four different varieties of homemade biscuits on one hand.  It tips ominously, so Sherlock takes the tray from her.  She kisses him then John on the cheek, wishing them both a Happy Christmas.  Sherlock carries the tray into the kitchen as they both follow closely behind.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for these,” John says with some enthusiasm.  “Could smell you baking since this morning.  Cruel woman, making a bloke wait like that.  You’re a bit of a biscuit tease, you are.”  John winks at her.

She blushes.  “Oh, go on, then,” she says, waving him off with a little laugh.  “And someone get me a glass of whatever that is that smells so lovely.”  John lifts a biscuit and takes a big bite, emitting a sound that verges on obscene.  Sherlock turns quickly away to ladle up a glass of mulled wine. 

“These really are very nice, Mrs Hudson,” John says sideways through his full mouth.  “You might even be able to convince Sherlock to have one or two.”

Mrs Hudson flaps her hands at him some more, but her chin is high; she is pleased.  “Oh, they were nothing,” she says, laughing.  Sherlock hands her the wine.  He lifts one of the pies after they’ve both gone back to the living room.  They really are delicious.  He pours a glass of red for himself before joining them.  He’s going to need it.

Lestrade is next, and then Molly.  This year, she’s wearing a green dress that Lestrade certainly appreciates and earns a wolf-whistle from John.  She laughs at him, and Sherlock kisses her cheek as she wishes him a Happy Christmas.  He notices that all of the presents in her bag are wrapped exactly the same—gold paper, white ribbon.

When Sally turns up nearly half an hour later, the room goes silent.  Sherlock feels the eyes of the others on them as he takes her coat.  John jumps in to save the day, asking her if she’d like a drink, and that seems to break the ice.  Molly and Lestrade are over chatting with her in an instant, and he watches her face go from apprehensive to warm.  Sherlock knows that she believes herself to be alone, but clearly—she isn’t. 

When John comes back from the kitchen, he’s holding out a wine glass and whispers in her ear as he hands it to her.  He’s given her the non-alcoholic punch made specially for her.  She smiles and nods, accepting the drink.

From there, everyone chats and drinks, and Sherlock plays a few carols on request.  In the last measure of “What Child is This,” Sally catches his eye.  When he finishes up with the last note, he nods once before placing his violin in its stand.  He feels his throat tighten, so he takes a sip of his wine.  He lets his eyes find John, who presses his lips together in a small smile, nodding almost imperceptibly. 

Sally comes to stand next to him.  Everyone is still chatting a bit, so Sherlock raises his voice a touch when he begins to speak.  “Everyone,” he says, clearing the knot that has once again found its way into his throat.  Every eye is on him.  He usually enjoys that.  “Er, I—I mean… An announcement, yes?  That’s what they’re usually called?”  Sally elbows him in the ribs.  He hates being at such a loss for words, at such a loss of composure. 

“Right,” Sally says, speaking over him.  He lets her.  “ _We_ —that is— _Sherlock and I_ have some… news.”

One could hear a pin drop for how quiet it’s gone.  Lestrade looks like he’s trying to catch flies with his open mouth, and Molly’s brows are knitted so closely together that they are becoming one entity. 

Sally whispers to him, “You go.”

He looks at her, appalled at feeling his own face go slack, his body betraying him even further.  John shifts a little, stepping closer without actually coming to stand next to him.  Sherlock looks at his face. He shakes his head once.  He can do this. 

“We are going to have a baby,” Sherlock says; this time his voice is steady. 

No one moves.  No one speaks. 

Sherlock had, admittedly, expected a _little_ more.

Sally says, “It’s true.”

“What?” Lestrade says.  “You and… _Sherlock_?  You’re takin’ the mick!” 

“I assure you, Lestrade— _not_ a joke,” Sherlock says as his wits return to him.

“What?  Really?”  Lestrade says, and he, Molly, and Mrs Hudson look from each other to Sherlock and Sally in turns.

Sally nods.  Sherlock nods.  John nods.

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson breaks with a single clap and a beaming smile.  “That is wonderful news!” and she rushes over to hug Sally.

From there, it is the tide breaking through the levee, and there are hugs and kisses and well-wishes from everyone.  Sherlock has to take a step back from it all; it’s getting to be too much.  He observes Sally talking to Lestrade, to Molly and Mrs Hudson giggling animatedly to one another.

He feels John step up from behind him before he sees him.  “You did all right up there, Sherlock,” he says.  “Look.”  John extends his arm to indicate the others, “they’re all so happy for you both.”

Sherlock looks at him.

“I am, too, you know,” he says, and then he pulls Sherlock into a hug, a proper one, arms firm around his shoulders, and Sherlock hesitates for only a second before returning the embrace.  He allows himself a moment of indulgence, of feeling John this close, of not finding an excuse to break away; this time, he’ll wait for John to let go first.  And, even after he does, Sherlock can feel the residual warmth like an aftershock all along the length of his body—following him even as he’s crossed the room to speak with Molly.

Later, he and Sally do have to explain to Lestrade and Mrs Hudson (but not to Molly) that they are not now and never really were a couple.  A happy accident, they begin to call it (well, Mrs Hudson does).

Sally is the first to leave, and Sherlock notes the dark circles under her eyes that she’s concealed with makeup, at the turned-down lines around her mouth.  Sherlock read about the fatigue that comes with early pregnancy.  He knows the hours she keeps, and he finds himself with an increasing amount of respect for her.

After Sally, the others linger for another hour or so before they too are ringing for taxis and saying good-bye.  John walks Mrs Hudson back down to her flat while Sherlock begins to gather plates and glasses for the sink.

When John returns, Sherlock has got the sink full and is stoppering the open wine bottles.

“Good do,” John says, lifting a fresh bottle of beer from the bucket still on the on the counter.  The ice is mostly melted, and John swipes at the dripping bottom with his hand, wiping the moisture on the side of his trousers; it leaves the fabric darker there.  He pops off the top and takes a sip.  “I think Greg might be holding something of a torch for Molly.  You know, I don’t think he’s seen anyone since his divorce finalised this summer.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that, so he hums, stuffing the cork into the last open bottle. 

“So,” John continues. “You and Sally kept from biting each other’s heads off tonight.  There might be hope for you two yet.”

“We aren’t together, John,” Sherlock says, blinking at him. “As you know.”

“I do.  I just meant—you two might actually learn to pull this baby thing off without one of you actually killing the other, is all.”

Sherlock smiles then, just a quick lift of the left side of his mouth.  “Let’s hope,” he says.  He watches John, who takes another sip of his beer.  He is shifting from foot to foot, and he opens his mouth to speak twice but shuts it again both times.  Sherlock knows what he wants to ask.  It is the same question John always asks when the topic is even remotely nearing the _how_ of him and Sally and sex.

John opens his mouth for a third time, but stops himself once more, shaking his head.  “Never mind,” he says quietly.

“It’s you,” Sherlock blurts.  He blames the wine.  And the lighting.  And the blasted near-perfect feeling of contentedness he was feeling only moments before. 

“Sorry?” John says, setting his beer back down on the worktop.

Sherlock takes a breath.  He should just let this go.  He should just (could just) retire to his bedroom and never speak of it again.  John would probably let him.  “You aren’t gay,” Sherlock continues, and once he’s started, he feels nearly powerless to stop the rest of the words from flowing.  “You like pretty, short, insipid women with breasts and tight jeans and tittering laughs and low-cut _yellow jumpers_ , and I—”  Sherlock has to take another breath.  He forces his eyes to meet John’s.  “I like… you.”

John shakes his head.  “You _like_ me?” he repeats.

“Well, _no_ ,” Sherlock admits.  “I am in love with you.”

John’s face becomes a tangled web of confusion lines, and Sherlock can nearly watch the cogs turn in his brain.  He waits for John to bolt, for John to laugh, for those lines of confusion to twist into lines of disgust.  But they never do.  Instead, they soften—into something that looks a lot like compassion.

“You’re in love with me?” John says, setting his bottle down. 

This conversation really will grow tiresome if John keeps repeating everything he says without adding anything new.  Sherlock tries to ignore the elevation in his own heart rate, tries to create a little space between them.  He starts to back up a bit, but he can’t get far; the lip of the counter bites into his backside. 

Before he can side-step, John is in front of him, grabbing his wrist.  “Don’t run away from me right now,” he says, unyielding but completely without anger.  Most of John’s hold is blocked by fabric, but John’s middle finger is wrapped around the skin of his wrist below his shirt cuff, his pinkie even higher up on his hand—cold where it had been wrapped around the beer bottle, growing warm as the seconds pass.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock,” John says.  “You’re right.  I’m not gay.”  He steps closer, further into Sherlock’s space, close enough for Sherlock to smell the beer, fresh on his breath.  He’s still holding Sherlock fast at the wrist.  It is confusing, being this close for this long.  Sherlock is losing hold of his last threads of self control, can’t stop the shuddering breath that leaves his lungs, ruffling the short fringe at John’s forehead. 

John shifts his weight from foot to foot, not moving away, not moving closer, and Sherlock feels pinned.  Sherlock knows John Watson better than any other person on the planet, but if his life depended on it, he could not begin to deduce what is happening in John’s head at the moment.  John looks down and takes a deep breath before lifting his face again.

“I,” John starts.  He squeezes Sherlock’s wrist.  “You must know that I love you, too.”  His face is so open.  “More than— _God_ , more than anyone else.  But, it’s not—”

At this John releases his wrist to wind his fingers into the hair just above each of Sherlock’s ears, tugging gently until Sherlock’s resting his forehead against John’s.  “I don’t—” 

Sherlock shuts his eyes, breathes deep, feels his own breath as it ghosts back over his face because John is _that_ close. 

And then, John’s lips are on his.  It takes a moment for Sherlock to even realise what’s happened because he didn’t expect it.  But then, something within him clicks, and he presses forward, clutching John’s shoulder with one hand, twisting his other into the front of that god-awful jumper.  

John’s hands slide back to the nape of his neck.  The tips of his fingers move in constant slow circles there, and Sherlock feels like he’s melting.  John’s tongue slides over his bottom lip, and Sherlock moans, opening his mouth, tasting lager and cinnamon, and then—John pulls suddenly away; it is over just as quickly as it had begun.

They are both breathing hard, and John hasn’t gone far—hands still on Sherlock’s neck, still holding their foreheads together, as before.  Sherlock lifts one of his own hands to the side of John’s neck, thumb rubbing lightly just under his ear.

John’s voice is rough when he says, “That was, erm…”  He clears his throat.

“Good?” Sherlock supplies.

“Very good,” John confirms with a small laugh, nodding.  Then, he pulls away enough to be able to properly catch Sherlock’s eyes, mirth fading as the lines around his mouth grow tight, serious.  “I just.  I think I need some time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods. 

John slides his hands down to Sherlock’s arms.  He squeezes once, thumbs smoothing over the bony fronts of his shoulders before he turns and takes the stairs up to his bedroom.

====

John wakes to the sound of the alarm clock that he forgot to shut off for the holiday.  He silences it immediately, pressing the snooze button with clumsy fingers.  He inhales, stretching, and rolls onto his back, running a hand over his face.  He rubs at his eyes to swipe the sleep from the corners with his thumb and forefinger, and when he opens them again, he remembers.

He kissed Sherlock last night.  It was a good kiss.  A _good_ kiss.

When he’d fallen into bed the night before, he fully expected to toss and turn, unable to shut down his brain enough to sleep.  He’d thought he would have a lot of soul-searching ahead of him, but in the end, he barely even remembers his head hitting the pillow.  He wonders now if that was a result of his long day coupled with perhaps one-too-many beers, or if maybe, somewhere deep down, it had more to do with him knowing that he didn’t really have all that much to mull over after all.

Well, he’s thinking about it now, and there are two things he knows for sure:  The first is that he is not gay, has never even remotely considered the possibility of romance of any sort with another man.  The second, is that he loves Sherlock Holmes down to his bones. 

He needs Sherlock like he needs air.  That much was made clear when Sherlock was gone, and John felt like he couldn’t catch a full breath until the moment he returned.  And he remembers that now as well, the air filling his lungs, almost too much of it—an overabundance of oxygen that heated his blood, made him feel sick.

He doesn’t even know why he kissed Sherlock.  He’d never wanted to before, hadn’t been secreting away his desire or wrestling with feelings he didn’t understand.  But when Sherlock told him, _finally_ told him what he felt, John could not allow him to run away and hide from it.  When he’d grabbed Sherlock, he simply wanted to show him that he was there, that they would figure it out, that it was all fine. 

He doesn’t even remember giving his body permission to lean forward and press his lips against Sherlock’s; he just did it.  And, it was—fucking amazing, is what it was.  He has never once questioned his sexuality, and funnily enough, he isn’t doing that now.  He knows.

From downstairs, he hears Sherlock’s violin start up—a tune he recognises but can’t name.  He _knows_.  He smiles.

The alarm goes off again, but this time he turns it off and gets up.  He doesn’t really have anywhere to be, so he just throws a pullover over his tee shirt.  He can get dressed later.      

When he reaches the kitchen, Sherlock stills his playing for a nearly-imperceptible moment but continues, and John hums along as he makes two cups of tea.  In the living room, he watches Sherlock play, still in his pajamas and dressing gown. His eyes are closed as he draws the bow across the strings, and when John sets down his mug on the coffee table, Sherlock opens his eyes and stops playing. 

“Morning,” John says, blowing on his own tea before taking a sip.

“Good morning,” Sherlock says.  It’s more question than statement.  He places his violin in its stand, turning his back to John to do so.

John clears his throat.  He figures it’s best to just… address the elephant straight away. “We wouldn’t be, you know— _going out_ ,” John says.

Sherlock spins around to face him.  “What?” 

John sets his mug next to Sherlock’s.  “I mean, if we did… this.”  John moves his hands back-and-forth between the two of them.  “It wouldn’t be casual.”

Sherlock steps directly into his space.  “I know.”  His voice is low, quiet. 

John feels it this time, is aware of the closeness in a way he wasn’t last night.  He feels a bit nervous, and he bites back the laughter that begins to bubble up in his throat.  “I’ve never even kissed a bloke until you.”

“I know.”  Sherlock still sounds a bit like he’s asking questions, hesitant.  It doesn’t suit him.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide for the briefest of seconds before narrowing into the tiniest of smiles.  “I know.”

John winds his fingers into the lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown.  “No, you didn’t,” he says, and then he kisses Sherlock again.  It is every bit as amazing as the one last night—maybe even better. 

“Well, I do now,” Sherlock says, smiling against John’s lips, and then he’s kissing John again.  It’s slow and relaxed and John’s head is buzzing from it, from the feel of Sherlock pressed against him and the taste of him in his mouth and the small sounds he’s making. 

When Sherlock’s hands work their way beneath the hem of his shirt and his fingers press against the bare skin of his back, John gasps, suddenly very sure that he’s actually on fire, and every single part of his body responds.  How had he never even considered this?  He has never felt so right about anything in his entire life.  John hears the small moan that comes from his own throat, and suddenly standing seems like the stupidest idea in the world.

Wordlessly, he backs Sherlock into the direction of his bedroom, sliding the dressing gown from his shoulders as they go.  He works his hands under the hem of Sherlock’s tee shirt, running his fingers around his ribcage before he pulls the shirt off, too. 

Sherlock lifts John’s jumper over his head along with his tee shirt, and by the time they fall onto the bed, they are pressed together, skin against skin, from shoulder to waist.  He’s never been naked with another person in a bed that smelled so utterly masculine, but really, it smells of Sherlock (God, of _home_ ).  John buries his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and breathes.  And then he licks.  Sherlock is made up entirely of sharp angles and tight skin, and it is so _different_ ; it is everything John never wanted before.

But he wants now.   He wants Sherlock.

Sherlock bucks up, tangling their legs and rolling them over, and then John can feel Sherlock’s want as well, through the thin layer of pajama bottoms that separates them.  Sherlock presses them together and slides up, all slow-drag and pressure.  John inhales sharply, amazed at his own body, even more amazed at the pleasure-slack look on Sherlock’s face. 

John can’t get his hands under Sherlock’s waistband fast enough, but Sherlock is right there with him, batting his hands away impatiently.  He lifts to his knees, straddling John’s thigh as he hooks his own fingers into the elastic and pulls, baring himself, shifting enough to wiggle out of the bottoms completely.  Sherlock’s fingers play at the waistband of John’s pajama bottoms, nearly burning where they run along the skin there.  He catches John’s eye, waits for him to nod, and then he slides them off as well. 

John winds his fingers into the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head and crushes their mouths together again, and this time when Sherlock presses them together, John sees stars.  He releases Sherlock’s mouth because he needs more air. 

He tilts his chin up at Sherlock’s lips along the column of his neck, and he feels that down to his toes.  Sherlock slides against him again, and John lets his fingers run along the bony ridge of Sherlock’s spine until he reaches the end, and he finds himself with his hands full of Sherlock’s arse cheeks.  He lifts his own hips as he pulls Sherlock closer.

He doesn’t really know what to do now.  As right as this all feels, it is new.  John hasn’t felt this green in bed in decades.  He catches Sherlock’s eyes again.

“Here,” Sherlock says, aligning their bodies, and wraps his hand around them both at once, and it is perfect. 

“Oh, God,” John hears himself say.  And then, he says it again, and again.  He can learn this, _will_ figure out how to make Sherlock scream.  But for now, John forgets how to think, forgets everything, and just loses himself in Sherlock’s fingers around him, at Sherlock’s cock pressed so tight and hot against his own, at Sherlock’s body, sharp and hard and _everywhere_.  John tries to touch every part of it, feels the shifting of Sherlock’s shoulder blades as his arm works them, scrapes around a nipple with a thumbnail before pressing into it with the pad. 

Sherlock is sweating, the curls on his forehead growing even darker, and when he looks at John, only the tiniest sliver of those pale irises is showing.  Every muscle in John’s body tightens, and when Sherlock comes with a groan, John is only seconds behind him.

Sherlock collapses, fitting his body along John’s side as John is still trying to catch his breath.  Then, he drops a sloppy kiss to John’s shoulder before reaching to the ground.  He comes up with a tee shirt, which he uses to clean them up a bit before tossing it across the room.

John catches him by the elbow, pulling him back down, and Sherlock settles in, head next to John’s on the pillow.  He shoves a foot between John’s calves, yanking their legs together in a tangle, and the feel of Sherlock’s thigh pressing into his own is wonderful.  For a long while, they just look at each other, breathing and smoothing hands over arms and shoulders and backs and necks.

John wants to say something witty, but what comes out is, “I’m in love with you.”

This time, Sherlock’s smile is wide when he says, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me over on [Tumblr](http://yaycoffee.tumblr.com). I'd love to hang out with all of you, dashboard style--so come on by and say hello :-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again to the fabulous Fiona_Fawkes for the beta and the encouragement!
> 
> And also a huge thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments! You make my heart so very happy, truly <3

Sherlock does not throw his laptop against the wall with as much force as he can manage, smiling with satisfaction at the audible _crack_ of the screen, at the magnificent spray of shattered plastic fanning out into the air before littering floor.  He does _not_ , but only barely.  Instead, he bangs his forehead lightly and repeatedly against the coffee table. 

January is hateful.  Sherlock hasn’t got a lead off Lestrade for ages, the world is full of _exceptionally_ stupid people, and John started back to work after his holiday.  Which means Sherlock is left alone with absolutely nothing better to do than to read through the most boring emails on the planet. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock grumbles at the screen, the latest pleas for help.  He clicks his mouse three times in quick succession—opening three reply windows. 

_Yes, your nanny is stealing your jewelry.  Sack her. Invest in a safe.  Now, leave me alone._

_Yes, your wife is cheating on you.  Why wouldn’t she?  Lose the moustache and get a job._

_Yes, your son is gay.  Next time, contact me with an_ actual _problem. No, next time, don’t contact me at all._

He clicks the send button with as much flourish as he can manage.  That done, he shoves the laptop further away on the coffee table and collapses in a heap across the sofa, sighing.  God, he needs some _actual_ work.  Or a cigarette.

Finally, after what feels like an absolute eternity, he hears John’s key in the downstairs door, footsteps climbing the stairs to the flat. 

“Sherlock,” he calls as he opens the door. 

Sherlock turns his head to watch John shrug out of his jacket.  Now that John’s here, he sighs again, closing his eyes.  When he opens them, John is standing just above him, setting a stack of post on the coffee table. 

John has brought the outside cold in with him, chilling Sherlock’s legs when John perches on the edge of the sofa.  Sherlock’s hands itch with the want to reach up and warm John’s fingers, so he does, sandwiching them between his palms.  John hums as he leans down into Sherlock’s space.

“Hello,” John says before he closes the distance to kiss him.  When John pulls away, Sherlock follows him upwards, sitting.

John squeezes his knee.  “London’s underbelly still refusing to be interesting for you?”   

Sherlock drops his head to John’s shoulder with a groan where he rolls his forehead back and forth.  “They are being obstinately dull, John.”

“Well,” John says brightly, dislodging Sherlock’s head when he leans forward to the table.  “You’ve got post.”  He hands him one of the envelopes from the pile he’d brought in with him.  “Perhaps you’ll get lucky, and it will be full of anthrax.”  John stands with a parting kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head before heading to the kitchen.

“One can dream,” Sherlock replies, sliding his index finger under the flap.  He already knows he’s in no such luck; it’s only his quarterly statement from the bank.  He pulls out the paper and glances at it, and then, for the first time in possibly ever, he reads the numbers in earnest. 

He must have been quiet for a long time because John’s voice floats into his awareness like it does when he’s been in his mind palace.

“Everything all right?” he asks, holding out cup of tea.  Sherlock takes it from him and sets it down on the table.

“Yes, of course.  Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you’ve been staring at that page for ten minutes,” John says, sipping from his own cup.  “What is it?”

“Bank statement.”

“Okay.”

“How much do you suppose Sally’s wages are with the Met?”

“I don’t know.  It’s not something people really talk about.  I’d reckon it’s enough to get by, not enough for early retirement.  Why?”

“I think I’m going to have to talk to Mycroft.”  Sherlock stands, stepping on then over the coffee table toward the centre of the room.  When John says nothing, Sherlock continues.  “Money, John.  I have a rather comfortable amount of it.”

“Well, they don’t grow suits like yours on trees, Sherlock.  Not a difficult deduction, even for me.”

Sherlock continues as if John hadn’t spoken, now pacing in the small space.  “Much more than Sally—an easy assumption given the paltry excuse for compensation provided by the Met.  Barely enough for her to afford a one bedroom flat and an inexpensive social life.  Hardly enough to support a child.”

“All right,” John says.  “But what does Mycroft have to do with it?”

“Far too much at this point,” Sherlock says slowly, bringing the folded edge of the paper down to tap against the space between his thumb and forefinger.  “He took control of my trust from our grandmother’s estate when I was younger and… less than careful about financial matters.”  He is full of restless energy, so he begins pacing again. 

“Although my situation has changed considerably since then, Mycroft’s interference spared me the tedium of dealing with it myself.  I’d not seen the point in trying to change it.  Now, the situation has… _changed_ even further—rather significantly, in fact.  When she first told me of the pregnancy, Sally said she didn’t want my money, though I’d assumed at the time (and still believe) it was a... _way out_ for me, had I not been interested in becoming involved.  But what if I want to give it?  This,” Sherlock stops abruptly, holding up the folded bank statement.  “Part of this—belongs to my child, regardless of whether or not Sally is ready to acknowledge or accept it.” 

Sherlock crosses the room to put on his coat. 

“Wait.  You’re going now?”

“No time like the present.”

“Without speaking to Donovan first?  Sherlock,” John says with that weighted _tone_ in his voice, letting him know that this might be on the verge of… not good.

Sherlock considers it all again briefly but brushes it aside with a physical wave of his hand.  “Why would I need to speak with Sally?  It’s my money.”  He tries to disregard the petulance in his own tone as he lifts his chin.

“Not for long, apparently,” John fires back.  “Don’t you think this at least merits a conversation with her before you what?  Start hiding notes about her flat?  I know you think the rest of us out here are morons, but even Sally Donovan will notice if piles of cash appearing under her teacups.  You _will_ have to speak with her about it eventually.”

Sherlock pauses to think for a moment.  Sally wouldn’t accept it, at least not yet, and he doesn’t _want_ to talk with her about it—much better to ask for forgiveness than permission.   He pulls his scarf from its hook.  “Mycroft first,” Sherlock says.

John sighs, resigned.  “Do you want me to go with you?” he asks, reaching for his jacket on the chair back he’s only just hung it over.

Sherlock pauses in the middle of wrapping his scarf around his neck. It will undoubtedly prove entertaining, telling Mycroft about the pregnancy, and John’s presence would certainly be (is nearly always) welcome.  Even so, this seems like something he needs to handle by himself.  “No,” he eventually says, finishing up with his scarf.  “I should do this one on my own.”

“All right,” John says, trying but not quite succeeding in hiding his disappointment.  “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I'll bring us back a curry for dinner?”

John smiles.  Appeasement achieved. “Good luck.” 

Sherlock pops up his collar and kisses John once before bounding out the door.

====

Mycroft’s office suite is always quiet.  It is not the quiet that comes from a lack or personnel or activity.  No, it is the quiet that comes from everyone too busy—creating and crushing financial crises and civil wars and traffic _situations_ —to bother with water-cooler chitchat. 

Though no one greeted him by name or inquired about his business in being there, no fewer than four of Mycroft’s employees were immediately pressing a buttons in their earpieces, murmuring hurriedly into their own shoulders.  They may be quiet, but they are alert (if lacking in subtlety).  Sherlock supposes the entire tableau is _meant_ to be intimidating.  He ignores them easily, gliding past the front room and down the staircase that leads to Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft raises his head as Sherlock enters, eyebrows raised lazily.  “Sherlock,” he says.  He narrows his eyes and tilts his head at a fraction of an angle on the left side.  “Ah, I see that you and Dr Watson have finally elevated your relationship.”  Mycroft’s voice is dripping with self-satisfaction, as if this deduction was meant to reveal some sort of secret, award him some sort of leverage.  “Have you come all this way simply to share the good news?  I’m flattered.”

“And I see that the Christmas pudding at the White House has insured that your personal trainer will keep his job for the foreseeable future.”

Mycroft sighs.  “Let us do leave the Americans out of it.  Why have you come?”

“I need to change the payment arrangements from my trust,” Sherlock says quickly, busying himself with poking through the silver dish of mints his brother keeps on the sideboard.  He makes sure to touch every single one before selecting the bottommost mint to pop into his mouth.  “And to set up a new one.”

At this Mycroft leans forward a little, interested (leverage, indeed).  “You haven’t spoken with me about money since you were twenty-two.  Why this all-so-sudden involvement?”

Sherlock waits a moment before speaking.  This is going to be an enormous amount of fun.  “I will need a portion of my stipend redirected to a third party, payable monthly, as well as a new trust set up for no later than mid-June,” he drawls, haughty and detached. 

Mycroft eyes him quietly for several seconds.  His eyebrows furrow in suspicion before climbing skyward in shock, finally settling somewhere in the middle:  unadulterated amazement.  Mycroft’s mouth drops open.  “You have got to be joking, Sherlock,” he says, a bit breathless, and Sherlock will indeed cherish this moment for years to come.

Sherlock smirks.  “Getting rusty, big brother?  Surely you haven’t begun to doubt your own deductions,” Sherlock says, pulling the cuff of his left sleeve straight.  “But, oh, I assure you—I do not joke about this.”  He tries to keep his tone mocking, but in saying the words, he is forced acknowledge their significance, and the weight of it grounds him, pulls his feet more solidly to the ground, wipes the smile from his face.  He covers by shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

When his eyes meet Mycroft’s across the desk, for perhaps the first time in their adult lives, Sherlock watches his brother allow his entire posture to go completely unguarded—a blatant display of emotion for the flash of a moment:  sadness and pride and something else that Sherlock can’t exactly name. 

Mycroft seems to catch himself then, schooling his face back into place and straightening his spine before settling once again deeper into his chair.  He sniffs once, dropping his gaze to his desk, lifting a pen to scratch out a note on one of the pads there.  His voice is back to business when he says, “I’ll alert the solicitors straight away.  They should have the papers drawn up and delivered to you by week’s end.” He doesn’t look up.

“That will be sufficient,” Sherlock says, turning to leave.

“And, Sherlock,” Mycroft calls after him.  Sherlock pauses at the door, turning his head to the side without quite making eye-contact.  “Congratulations.”

Sherlock smiles, finding himself unexpectedly pleased at the sentiment.  “Thank you.”

====

The room is brighter than usual when Sally opens her eyes. 

Her alarm clock didn’t go off.  Her alarm clock didn’t bloody go off!

“Fuck!” she growls, throwing off the blankets and jumping from the bed.  Bad move.  Dizzy.  Nauseated.  Sick.  She dry heaves once, twice, and then lets the wave pass.  She is, at least, getting more used to feeling like complete shit all of the time.  She takes a deep breath and makes her way to the bathroom, where she turns on the shower to let the water warm up. 

She moves as fast as she can, praying for a slow day.  Perhaps she won’t be missed for being fifteen minutes late.  When she gets out the door, she reaches into her pocket for her phone to check the time, and damn it all—she’s left the fucking thing upstairs.  With a frustrated groan, she turns right round to get it, dropping her keys at her feet.  Bloody perfect.  Sally sighs as she picks them up and lets herself back inside, where of course she stumbles over the towel she left on the bedroom floor as she grabs the phone from the nightstand.

Outside, it is grey and slushy and dirty and _cold_.  Sally wraps her coat around her as far as it will go and waits for her bus.  She begins buttoning it, but the one at her waist won’t do up at all.  Lovely.  

On the short journey to the Yard, she does the kind of maths that make her head hurt—she balances the too-small numbers in her bank account with time.  She’s been trying to save up to place a deposit on a larger flat by the time the baby starts crawling.  She can manage in her one-bedroom until then, but it looks like she’s going to have to use the savings money this month (again) on the other things she needs to get her through this pregnancy.  A new coat it is, then (and probably clothes as well, eventually).  And as she steps from the warm bus out into the frozen drizzle, she only hopes for enough of a lunch break to make it to Debenhams.

She can hardly feel her fingers by the time she reaches her desk to boot up her computer, and while she waits for it, she pulls one of her herbal teabags out of her top desk drawer.  She goes to the small break room where of course, someone has used all the water in the kettle without filling it again, so she does that, too.

She steps back into the corridor to get back from her desk and nearly collides with someone as she rounds the last corner, sloshing scalding tea over her hand.  “Shit!” she says, shifting her mug to her other hand to wipe the dripping one on her trouser leg.

“Oh, blimey, Sally—I’m so sorry.”  Molly Hooper is right in front of her.  “I really should have been watching.  I’m so sorry!  Are you all right?”

Sally lets out a breath.  “I’m fine,” she says.  “Though, I think this morning is out to kill me.”

Molly laughs a little.  “I know the feeling.  Doing all right, then?”

“All right, yeah,” Sally replies.  Then, “What brings you here so early?”

“Er…” Molly stammers, and Sally notices the doughnut sack in her hands.  “I er… thought that Gr—Detective Inspector Lestrade might fancy a d-doughnut.”  She looks down, fiddling with the folded edge of the sack.

Sally smiles.  “Oh, _really_.”

Molly’s eyes brighten as she smiles back, nodding her head.

“He likes the ones with raspberry jam,” Sally says, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“I know,” Molly whispers back.  She sounds nearly giddy.

“Sure you do.  Good for you both,” Sally says and means it.  “We’ll have to have a catch up sometime soon.”

“Wh-what about lunch today?” Molly says.  “I mean—we always say we’re going to do it, but then life goes on and we never do and—”

“Lunch sounds good.  I’ve got to stop off at Debenhams for a bit, but I think there’s a Pret near there.”

“I’ll see you there, then,” Molly says.  “Just shoot me a text as you’re leaving.”  She nods once before walking down the corridor to Lestrade’s office.

Sally makes it back to her desk without further incident, and once there, she is actually able to drink her tea and check her email without interruption.  Her morning is made up of paperwork and meetings, dull and unchallenging, and by the time lunch rolls around, she finally feels as though she’s evened out.

She meets Molly at the restaurant, and they chat over their sandwiches.  Molly has been seeing Lestrade for a couple of weeks, and  she’s adorably smitten.  Sally hopes this works out for both of them—they deserve some happiness.

“Did you say something about Debenhams?” Molly asks, as they’re leaving.  “It’s just—if you don’t mind the company… I could use a new scarf.   I dropped mine into a puddle of formaldehyde that one of the interns didn’t clear up straight away and I can’t seem to get rid of the smell.”

“Sure.  I’ve got to get a new coat.  This one just… well, it won’t button up any more.”

“I noticed that you were sh—I mean, you look fabulous, but you are.  Starting to—show.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.  I’ll not be able to keep this a secret for much longer, it seems.”

“No.  But that’s good, isn’t it.  Exciting!”  Molly is smiling widely.

Sally hadn’t really thought of it lately as anything other than annoying and expensive.  But, she supposes it _is_ rather exciting.  The baby is growing.  It really is in there.  “Yeah—I guess it is,” she replies.

At the store, she chooses a maternity coat (of which there are all of four whole options), but it fits her well in the shoulders while leaving enough room for her stomach to grow and grow.  She doesn’t hate it.  In the dressing room, she holds the excess fabric out in front of her belly, even still having a hard time imagining what she’ll look like. 

Molly has chosen a scarf with owls on and pom-poms at the ends.  It suits her.

As she swipes her card at the till, she holds her breath a little, silently grateful that the sale goes through. 

She says goodbye to Molly when they get back to the street and have to go in opposite directions.  They make plans to meet up in a couple days’ time, and Sally wonders if this is what it’s like to have an actual girl friend.  She hasn’t had a proper one of those since school.  But, they did manage to make it through boy talk and baby talk and even did some shopping—all in their lunch hour.  It was good.

Back at her desk, Sally takes a deep breath before typing in the website for her online banking.  She needs to check her balance, to plan for what’s coming (it’s a week yet until payday).  It takes a moment to load, but when it does, Sally has to blink at the numbers.  For once—there are too many.  That can’t possibly be right.

She closes out the site and brings it up again—re-entering her log-on information.  The numbers are the same.  She clicks the little link that brings up a more detailed accounting of withdrawals and deposits, and there it is—an amount just larger than her monthly wage entered as a deposit, coming from an unfamiliar account. 

She rings the bank.

The polite woman on the other end of the line assures her that there is no mistake. 

“Yes, but where did it come from?” Sally asks.  The woman places her on hold.  Sally waits.

“Miss Donovan?” the woman asks as she returns to the line.  “The account belongs to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thank you,” Sally says, feeling her skin prickle along the length of her arms.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Miss Donovan?”

“No, that will be all.”

The call ended, she checks the numbers again and feels her cheeks heat with indignation, and if she’s honest, with something that feels more than a little like embarrassment.  She isn’t able to dwell on it for long, though because Lestrade rings to tell her that he needs her written reports on last week’s cases by the end of the day. 

====

Sherlock holds the blow torch from the finger at a distance of precisely six centimetres.  Interesting, but as he’d expected based on his seven-centimetre trial.  He turns off the torch to record his observations and scrapes a sample for the microscope slide. 

He lights the torch again, noting that holding the flame at a distance of two centimetres will, in fact, set the fingernail keratin on fire.  He turns off the torch to put out the flame whilst preserving the tissue as much as possible.

“Sherlock!” John is standing in the kitchen doorway.  Sherlock turns to him, lifting the safety goggles from his eyes.  “How could you not hear—? What in God’s name are you doing?  You know what—never mind.  Donovan’s in the living room, and she does not look pleased.”  He moves to fill the kettle and continues muttering under his breath.  “I’m sure the stench of burning flesh is putting her right at ease.”

Sherlock straightens and shucks the dressing gown from his shoulders, dropping it over the back of the kitchen chair.

“Sally,” he says as he walks through the door and into the living room.  “Good evening.”

“You wanker,” she starts, cheeks reddening.  Her hands are balled into fists, and her face is screwed up into a nasty scowl.  “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Find out what?” Sherlock asks calmly, striding over to his arm chair, where he motions for Sally to have a seat in John’s.  When she continues to do nothing more than glare at him, he shrugs and takes a seat for himself. 

“Don’t play stupid,” she says, shaking her head.  “I know you’re not.  You’re a mad, infuriating, poncy little _git_ , but you aren’t stupid.”

Sherlock chooses to examine his fingernails, making a show of ignoring her wrath.  She’ll either get to the point, or she will leave.

Sally takes a step closer to him, crossing her arms over her chest—slightly higher than she normally would, as her belly has begun to swell.  And that simple observation snaps Sherlock’s focus completely to the pregnancy.  How many weeks is it now?  Seventeen.  Should have a doctor’s appointment soon.  Might learn the gender.

“Are you even listening?”  She has apparently carried on talking, but Sherlock didn’t hear a word.

“No,” Sherlock replies.  “Don’t we have an appointment with Dr Moore next week?  Sonogram?”

Sally shakes her head.  “No.  No you don’t.  You don’t just get to change the subject whenever you don’t want to discuss something.”

“Were we discussing something?”

“ _I_ was.”

Sherlock sighs.  “Well then, do get to the _point_ , Sally.”

“I checked my bank account balance today.”

“Well done.  Passwords can be tricky to remember.”  Sherlock sees John come in with a tray of teacups.  “Would you like a biscuit?”  John glares at him as he sets it down on the table next to his chair.

“Oh, my _god_.  The money, you pillock.  How did you even get my account information?”

“It was a simple matter of—” 

Sally cuts him off before he gets very far.  “You didn’t even ask me, Sherlock.  You just _did it_.  You just… I don’t know—stalked my private banking information and, what?  You thought I would be happy?   I’m no one’s charity case.”

John jumps in before Sherlock can respond. “You _didn’t_ tell her about the money?”

“You told _him_ about the money!” Sally protests, face going an even deeper shade of red.

“Of course I told John; he’s my partner.  And, just to be clear,” Sherlock continues. “Are you upset that I’ve given you money, or are you upset that I didn’t tell you about it?”

“How are you even from this planet?” Sally asks.  “Yes, and yes.  I told you that I didn’t want your money—back from the start.  And, the fact that you have somehow managed to get into my banking information without my knowledge…”

As Sally was speaking, John dropped his head to pinch the bridge of his nose.  “Mycroft,” he says swiping his thumb and forefinger over his eyes with a quiet chuckle. 

Is John angry with him now, too?  He doesn’t understand what the big deal is—Sally needs more money than she has; he has money, so he made sure she got the money.

“Sherlock,” John says, looking up.  “You can’t just—mess about with people’s personal information.”

“I can,” Sherlock says, petulantly holding his chin high, his eyes away from either of theirs.  But then he’s curious, so he asks, “Why can’t I?”

“It’s _private information_ ,” Sally says.  “And, what the hell does your brother have to do with anything?”

John laughs then, entirely humourless.  “Tip of the bloody iceberg.”

“Sally,” Sherlock starts, now wanting this to be over.  For all he cares, she can stuff the money into her pillows, give it to charity, whatever she likes until the baby comes, but the money _belongs_ to his child, and he will not apologise for providing it.  He doesn’t get the chance to actually say any of that because Sally’s phone pings with a message.

She huffs out an irritated breath.  “I have to go.  Crime scene.  Lestrade’s on his way.”  She starts to button up her coat again.  “This isn’t over, Sherlock.  We will talk tomorrow.”

“Or, we can talk at the crime scene,” Sherlock says, crossing the room to pull his coat off its hook.  He tosses John’s over to him as well.  “I haven’t had a proper case in ages,” he says.

====

Lestrade sent a car round for Donovan, but John and Sherlock took a taxi.  They are quiet in the back on the way to the crime scene.  John doesn’t like her much, but even he has to admit that Sally has every right to be angry. 

He’s had _years_ to get used to living with Sherlock, to being in a relationship with him.  He can only imagine what it must be like, trying to learn the Holmes mind so quickly and under these less-than-ideal circumstances.  Many of John and Sherlock’s rows, even now, even since their relationship shifted into what it has become, are about boundaries and Sherlock’s refusal to so much as acknowledge them when they are inconvenient for him. 

He wishes he knew if there was anything he should say.  Is it his place to say anything at all?  If he were to say something, would it be to Sherlock, or Donovan?  The taxi pulls over when they reach their destination, and Sherlock hands over the fare.    

The officers on the scene have already set up yellow tape and created a perimeter, and Lestrade is speaking with one of them when he and Sherlock arrive.  They’re in the sort of suburban neighbourhood like where he grew up—an unflashy street with modest houses for middle-class families. 

Lestrade rolls his eyes when he sees them, but he hands each of them a pair of gloves and begins running through information.  “Name’s Gary Nelson, forty-three, father of two boys—ages twelve and fifteen, been married for sixteen years.  Middle management for some company that manufactures lighting equipment.  His older son called it in about an hour ago—found him asphyxiated by carbon monoxide in the garage.  Wife was out of the house—at football practice with the younger boy. The older one found him in the garage when he noticed the smell of the exhaust.”

“Suicide,” Sherlock says flatly, looking disappointed.

“They can’t all be serial killers,” Lestrade says, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder.  “But, you’re here, so you might as well come in and have a look.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says.  John knows that he’d rather have a murder, a puzzle to solve, but this will give him first-rate data—all sorts of things to learn and catalogue in that funny old brain of his.  John hopes this might keep him from setting fire to the rest of the fingers he’s got in the fridge, for a day or two at least.

In the house, Donovan is speaking with the wife, her two sons sitting next to her on the sofa, the younger still in his football kit.  She’s in her early-forties, a bit plump—neatly dressed in dark blue jeans, crisp white shirt, and a blue cardigan.  She looks like the sort of woman you’d see on a Sainsbury’s advert.  Sherlock walks straight past her, through the kitchen and down a set of stairs that leads to the garage. 

Nelson’s body is still in the driver’s seat, hunched awkwardly over the steering wheel.  The forensics team is already milling about, taking samples, and John notices that Anderson is thankfully not present.  

Without disturbing anything on the scene, Sherlock rakes over every detail with his eyes, asking a few questions of the techs as he goes.  John can practically see Sherlock’s mind cataloguing everything from position of the body to the oil spots on the garage floor.  Sherlock crouches down and peers at the underside of the car and then carefully looks over the whole of the outside.  He then opens the passenger-side door, head disappearing inside.  He moves around as best he can without touching anything, looming over the dashboard and then back to see into the backseat. 

John is just behind him when he carefully opens the driver-side door, leaning in to see it all from this new angle.  The stench of vomit is unmistakable.  Poor bastard—there is a pool of sick in his lap, smeared down the front of his shirt and tops of his trousers, even on the steering wheel where he’d got it on his hands and then put his hands on the wheel.  What a bloody awful way to go.

Sherlock stands up quickly with a breathed out, _oh_.  He turns to John and smiles—it really is indecent (But oh, John loves when his smile looks like that).  Sherlock spins where he stands and pulls the walkie-talkie from the shoulder of nearest officer.  “Lestrade,” he says, the machine squealing briefly.  “Get down here now.  This is no suicide.  It’s murder.”  The officer pushes Sherlock away roughly, and as he does so, Sherlock shoves the hand-piece directly into his chest, where the officer has to fumble with it to keep it from dropping.

Lestrade is down in seconds, Donavon just behind him.  “All right, Sherlock.  What have you got?”

Sherlock is still beaming, and Donavon screws her face up in open dislike at Sherlock’s untempered intensity.  “Look here,” Sherlock says, nearly crowing with delight.  He points to the open driver-side door.  “At the handle.  Do you see?”

“See what?”

“Really look!  Scratch marks, smears of vomit.  If a man were trying to kill himself, why would he have been trying to claw his way out of the car?”  Sherlock spins, clapping his hands together in front of himself before speaking again.  “But, no.  He’s pulled into the garage, shut the door, and what, waited to die?  No.  There are clear signs of distress.  He’s been sick, and he covered his mouth with his hand to try and stop it.” Sherlock mimics the movement, pantomiming vomiting into his own hand.  “By then, he’s realised he’s in real trouble, so he begins to panic.  Look—he’s scrabbled all over the place, smearing vomit everywhere he tried to touch.  It’s all over the ignition switch, the steering wheel, and the handle.  And, there are scratch marks from his fingernails behind the handle, indicating that he was desperate, had tried to get out but couldn’t.”

“Brilliant!” John says, unable to hold it back.  Sherlock does a pitiful job at feigning diffidence at the remark, his smile slipping too thoroughly into his eyes.

“Right, but how would a murderer work this out?” Donovan asks.  “There are a lot of variables here—why didn’t he simply shut off the engine?  Open the garage door?  Leave?  Maybe he just changed his mind last second, but it was too late before he passed out.”

“That still doesn’t account for the scratch-marks,” John says.  “Even weakened from lack of oxygen, he would have had the strength to open the door.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. 

Sherlock is not giving it up.  “Even the position of the body—he’s removed his seatbelt, knees pressed flush against the door.  I’d wager that a postmortem examination would reveal pre-mortem bruising on his knees and elbows where he was trying to break the window glass.  No, Mr Nelson did not plan on dying this evening.”  Sherlock walks towards the stairs again, removing his gloves and chucking them into a bin. 

“Now, wait just a minute,” Lestrade calls after him.  Sherlock ignores him, bounding up the stairs into the kitchen.  Lestrade is right behind him, John and Donavon just behind them. 

In the kitchen, Lestrade has Sherlock by the arm.  “We’ve already been speaking with the family, and you can ask them questions if you still need to, but let’s go through the information we already have.  This is a wife who has lost her husband and two boys who have lost their dad.  I’ll not have you going up there and shouting at them or pretending to be some long lost mate from uni.  Sherlock, these are real, grieving people, and I won’t have you upsetting them further if we can help it.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath in and looks at John.  John nods at him.  “All right, fine,” Sherlock says.  “What do we know?”

It’s Donovan who speaks, pulling a small notepad from her back pocket.  “The wife’s name is Fiona, boys are Declan, fifteen and Caleb, twelve.  According to the wife, everything had been going well at home—and at work, as far as she knew; he hadn’t been sacked or anything.  She had gone to Caleb’s football practise, and Declan had stayed late at school to work on a project and then walked home.  She said all this was fairly normal.”

“Was it a routine?” John asked.  “Is this what a typical Tuesday is like for them, a way for someone to count on everyone being out of the house when Mr Nelson returns from work?”

“That’s the thing,” Sally says.  “He hardly ever got home before they did.  Even when they were busy, Mrs Nelson and the kids were usually home already when Gary got in from work.  This was called in around half-five, which means he would have had to come home round about five, in time to be killed.  The older boy, Declan, says when he came in, he didn’t notice straight away that anything was wrong.  He came in the front door and switched on the telly.  He noticed the fumes and went down to the garage to see what was going on.  That’s when he found his dad and called in.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asks.  “Are you even paying one bit of attention?”  Sherlock had begun by standing and making a good show of taking in Sally’s information, but as she went on, he began pacing the kitchen, stopping every so often to look at things the way he does. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says.  “Pattern changed only by early arrival of the dad.  Everyone else on normal routine.  Mother and younger son out of house.  Father found by older son.”  He’s speaking very quickly, but halts his speech entirely as he examines a little decorative bank of key-hooks mounted just beside the door that leads to the garage.  “Nelson drives a Toyota?”

“Yes,” Donovan says.

“And the wife?” Sherlock asks.

“A Ford.”

Sherlock hums and reaches his hand to the bank of keys on their hooks.  There is a separate round bit of plastic hanging from a few of the key chains.  Sherlock puts his glove back over one finger and presses it, and there is the distinct rumble of the garage door opening. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock says.  And then, “I need to know about the dog,” before turning around and walking into the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me over on [Tumblr](http://yaycoffee.tumblr.com). I'd love to hang out with all of you, dashboard style--so come on by and say hello :-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much to beta extraordinaire, Fiona_Fawkes, for her awesome advice and encouragement. Also thanks to SilentAuror who is a pretty great cheerleader, too! Ladies--you are wonderful. You are so appreciated!!

Sally is right behind John and Lestrade as they follow Sherlock into the living room.  Mrs Nelson has an arm around her younger son, Caleb, who has clearly been crying.  The older one, Declan, seems to have gone into some sort of shock, staring blankly at the wall opposite him.  Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but Lestrade cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder.  Sherlock rolls his eyes, but allows it.

“Mrs Nelson,” he says.  “This is one of our consultants, Sherlock Holmes, and he believes he has a few further questions if you don’t mind.  I know it’s rough, but if you could answer his questions as best you can, it will help the investigation.”

Mrs Nelson nods weakly, and Lestrade steps aside and guides Sherlock to sitting in an armchair opposite her.  Sherlock looks mildly affronted at having been manhandled into form, but he seems to let it go quickly.

“Tell me about the dog,” he says sharply and without preamble.

“What?” Mrs Nelson says, confusion written all over her face.

“The _dog_ ,” he repeats without a shred of softness in his voice.  “Your dog.  I didn’t see it in the garden, and it hasn’t been nipping at our ankles all evening, so I’m wondering where it’s got off to.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Nelson says. “I don’t even know how you… but no—we don’t have a dog anymore.”

Sherlock hums and leans forward, placing his steepled fingers at his chin.  “And what happened to it?  You’ve still got a lead hanging from a hook in the kitchen, and there are photographs on the refrigerator that can’t be more than six months old—small terrier, collar that matches the lead, in your back garden with your younger son.”

That is when the younger son, Caleb, begins crying again softly at his mother’s side.  She rubs comforting circles on his back.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes—it’s just that this is still fairly fresh and rather out of the blue since _my husband only just_...”  She lets her words trail off as her voice threatens to break into a sob.  She takes a deep breath and wipes at her eyes with the tissue she’d already had balled in her hand.  “We did have a little Norwich terrier—Butters—but there was an accident about two months ago.  Why?”

“What sort of accident?” Sherlock asks.

Caleb gulps in air, trying to calm himself down.  He is the one who speaks next.  “He got attacked by another dog, we think.”

Sherlock nods at him.

“Poor thing,” Mrs Nelson says.  “He did have a terrible habit of darting out the door.  Must have done earlier that day with one of the boys—they didn’t even notice he’d got out until a neighbor called to tell me she’d seen him on the side of the road.  No one saw what happened, but he’d been…” she cuts herself off and shakes her head.  “But why do you want to know all this?”

Sally watches as Sherlock takes in the information.  He doesn’t answer her question, just sort of sits there, staring off into the middle distance with his hands steepled and resting against his lower lip.  It’s Watson’s voice that snaps him back into focus.

“Sherlock?”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock says, dropping his hands to his lap.  He turns to the older son, who is still dry-eyed and pale.

“Declan?” Sherlock says, and Sally is surprised that he remembered something so mundane as someone’s name.

Declan turns to him. 

“You know,” Sherlock says.  “I had a dog when I was a boy.  Died of cancer.  Horrible, though not unexpected, in the end.”

Declan shrugs.

“It must be a real _shock_ to have such a horrific accident happen to your own dog.”

“It was,” Declan says in that strange sort of scratchy adolescent voice that sounds both very young and very deep at the same time—like it can’t decide if it wants to belong to a child or an adult.  He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms at his chest.

“Did you like to play with Butters-the-terrier?” Sherlock asks, and even Sally has to admit to herself that this line of questioning is growing frustrating.

“I guess,” Declan says.  “What does this have to do with anything?”

“What is your favourite subject in school?”

“Why?”

“Curious.”

“I don’t know.  Science?  Biology.”

“Were you working on a project for science this evening?  Is that why you were late getting in from school?”

“Yeah,” Declan says.

“Tell me about how you came home.”

“Like I told the other guy—I came home and turned on the telly.  After a few minutes, I smelled something funny coming from the garage, so I went to see what it was and…” Declan stops talking to bury his face in his hands.

“If you please, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Neslon says, pulling herself up to standing.  She holds her hand out in front of her in a stop motion.  “It has been a very difficult evening for us, and you are upsetting my children.  I don’t know if there is a point to all of this or not, but I’m afraid I’m going to insist that you ask your final questions and leave.”

“Very well,” Sherlock says, and then he stands and grabs Lestrade by the elbow, steering them to the kitchen doorway so that they can have a hushed conversation.  Sally can’t hear what Sherlock is saying, but she can make out the rapidity of his words.  Lestrade’s face goes dark, worried, and he shakes his head.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs Nelson, but I’m afraid we aren’t done here just yet,” Lestrade says when he and Sherlock return to the living room properly.  “As you no doubt _overheard_ earlier, there is a question about the circumstances of your husband’s death.”  He stops take a breath, shooting Sherlock a look.  “We just need the big picture here, so we’ve got a few further questions for your family.  We can ask them here, or we can go to the offices at the Yard.”

Mrs Nelson sighs, clearly exasperated.  “What then,” she asks, remaining standing.

Sherlock says, “I would like to see each of your mobile phones, please.  And your late husband’s, assuming it is either in the car or bagged with the evidence.”

Despite a look of frustration, Mrs Nelson nods in acquiescence and looks to her children.  The younger, Caleb, stands to fish his out of his school bag, but Declan doesn’t move.

“Declan,” his mother says.  “Can you please give your phone to the detective?”

Declan hesitates before retrieving his phone from his trouser pocket.  One of the techs from the garage comes in with a bagged phone that was presumably Mr Nelson’s.

Immediately, Sherlock turns each of them on and presses buttons.   He quickly discards Mrs Nelson’s and Caleb’s, but he spends a bit longer with Declan’s, pressing buttons and switching screens.  He works with Mr Nelson’s for only a moment before he shows the two mobiles to Lestrade, whose face goes even graver.  Lestrade nods.

“Declan,” Lestrade says.  “Why did you make a phone call to your father late this afternoon?  Why is that call erased from your own phone’s call log?  It shows here that it is definitely from your number.”

“I don’t know,” Declan says.

“Declan?” his mother asks.  Her face is going pale, lines of true fear appearing around her eyes and mouth.  Sally suddenly feels devastatingly awful for her.

“I don’t know,” Declan says again, but this time the words have a harder edge.

And then, Sherlock speaks.  “Oh, Declan.  You do know, though, don’t you?”  He leans in to Declan’s space, a weird half-smirk appearing at one corner of his mouth.  “You are clever, I’ll grant you that.  But, I’m clever, too.”

Declan raises his chin and blinks slowly up at Sherlock from the sofa, looking oddly lanky in his wrinkled school uniform, boney shoulders beginning to strain at the seams of the button-down, hems of his trousers half an inch too short.   

Sherlock continues, “When did you get the idea?  What happened?  Did you not get the iPad you wanted for your birthday?  Grounded from going to the Winter’s Ball at school?”

Declan still says nothing.

Sherlock begins to pace, saying, “You thought it would be so easy because everyone around you is just so _stupid_ , am I right?”  Sherlock pauses, but Declan remains silent.  “No one understands you, do they?  I do.  I understand, Declan.  I know exactly what happened.  You phoned your father to get him back to the house long before you knew your Mum and brother would return.  You’re usually working late at school, and when we check that with your teachers and classmates, they will all tell us that you were there because that is where you always are.  But you work alone if you can help it; you don’t have anyone close enough to know one way or the other.  After all, alone protects you, doesn’t it? ”

At this, Watson’s head snaps up, and his face goes to steel, jaw clenching.  Declan’s body goes even more rigid as he refuses to make eye contact with Sherlock or anyone else in the room. 

“You’d done it once before—the dog—and no one knew.  No one even suspected, did they—except maybe your Dad, but he isn’t in any position to tell anyone now, is he?  No.  He was _scared_ of you, his clever son.”  Sherlock turns to face Declan fully, his mother and brother staring on with open mouths, and Sally feels her own heart rate increase. 

“So, you phoned him and waited for him to come home.  You waited at the top of the garage stairs, with all those wonderful keys.  It must have been so easy.  Your father pulls into the garage and shuts off his engine, but he can’t get out of the car.  The engine starts again.  Technology is a wonderful thing—everything is remote these days, even car ignitions.  Your father turns it off, you turn it on.  Your father tries to raise the garage door, you lower it.  All from right inside the door.  All you had to do was wait for him to stop trying—that’s when you knew it was over.  That’s when you called the police.”

“Oh, my God.  Oh, my God, _Declan_?”  Mrs Nelson is bent at the waist, and her breathing is not even.

Even Watson looks sick as they all stare at the teenager still sat on the sofa, still dry eyed, face completely void of expression.  Sally had assumed earlier that it was to do with the shock of loss, but now she sees it for what it really is—the cold and controlled countenance of a psychopath.

Sally is only dimly aware of Lestrade placing Declan under arrest, too transfixed by the self-satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s face, on the entire shape and sound of Mrs Nelson as she falls to her knees and covers her face with her hands.  She begins to rock as guttural sobs seem to wring themselves up from the deepest part of her chest.  When the sound of it, the _horrifying_ sound of it, begins to resemble something like words, they are nearly unintelligible, but they become clearer soon enough.  Fiona Nelson is saying, “My baby.  My baby,” over and over again. 

Sally can’t take her eyes away, can’t separate herself—it’s all making her head feel too light, her legs too heavy.  _My baby.  My baby._   The wave of nausea hits her like an oncoming train, and she feels sick enough that she runs down the corridor off the Nelson’s living room, praying she’ll find a loo.  It is thankfully behind the first door she tries because she barely makes it to the bowl of the toilet before she vomits hard enough that tears well up in her eyes.

Sally sits down on the tiled floor and catches her breath, closes her eyes.  She thinks about chance—about odds, about genetics, and about the career she has chosen.  Through the door, she can still hear Mrs Nelson’s cries. 

She can’t make herself get up.  She knows she wouldn’t be able make her feet carry her back into the living room even if she did.  She thinks about Sherlock Holmes.  Her vision is muddled when she opens her eyes; there is too much banging around in her brain and in her chest for her to properly focus on anything.  After a while, she says it out loud—the one word that she _has_ said so many times, the word she can’t stop thinking:  “Freak.”    

Sally is startled by the sound of the sink tap running behind her. 

She looks up to see Sherlock wetting a flannel.  His face is mask-blank as he wrings it out and hands it to her without meeting her eye.  Before she can even say anything, he retreats as quickly and as silently as he came, leaving her alone on the hard floor with the taste of bile sharp in her mouth.

====

It doesn’t take a genius to deduce what Sally Donovan is thinking.  The part, though, that is twisting around in the very bottommost part of his gut is that she is right.  After all, he’s said it himself, so many times:  high-functioning sociopath.  Of course, Sally says _freak_ , _psychopath_ —potato/potato.  He has done his research, after all.

Mrs Nelson knew about her son but chose to ignore it.  Mr Nelson knew about his son and didn’t.  What of his own parents, then?  What had they done?  They had gone line dancing and left him to dissect caterpillars on the kitchen worktop.

Sherlock doesn’t even fully realise that he’s gone out the front door and halfway down the street until he hears his name.  John is jogging up behind him.  “Don’t, John,” he says, turning to face him. 

John stops, his mouth opening and then closing into a tight line.  He takes a step closer.

“What do I think I’m doing?” Sherlock asks the sky as he lifts his face to it.  He knows it’s more a question for himself than John.  What will become of any child he has a hand in raising? 

He risks a look to John then, whose eyes are soft and warm and nothing he deserves.  John’s mouth turns down before he hitches it at the corner.  He’s working out what to say.

“Why don’t you tell me about the dog, Sherlock?” John asks.

“Declan did an experiment,” Sherlock replies, unsure what—

“ _Not_ that one.”

Oh.  Sherlock purses his mouth.  He doesn’t want to talk about Redbeard.  John doesn’t move, doesn’t shift his gaze. 

“What do you want me to say, John?  That I had a dog.  It died.  I was gutted.  I’m a real boy after all!”  He finishes with sarcastic enthusiasm. 

At this, John does look down, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Jesus, Sherlock—I know you.  I know what you think of yourself, and—”  He pauses for a moment to step in even closer.  John reaches up to thread his fingers into the hair at Sherlock’s nape.  They’re cold.  But John pulls Sherlock’s head down to his, rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, fingers trailing to the side of Sherlock’s neck before saying low and sure, “You could not be more wrong.”

John may be right; Sherlock may be wrong.  Sherlock pulls back, shaking his head.  But not wrong enough, so he turns away and begins to walk to the main road, already ringing for a taxi.  He flings a hand out to the side when he hears John’s footsteps start up again behind him.  “No, John.”  The footsteps stop, and Sherlock walks forward—alone.

====

John watches Sherlock go for a few seconds, debates following.  He doesn’t because what good would it do?  He huffs out a breath through his nose and feels his hands close into fists at his sides, cold fingers biting into the meat of his palm.

He turns back toward the Nelson home.  He doesn’t know exactly what happened, but he is ninety-nine percent sure that it has something to do with Sally Donovan.  She is at the kerb next to Lestrade’s car when he approaches.  She’s looking a bit pale still, but much more composed since she sprinted for the loo a few minutes earlier.

“ _What_ happened?” John asks her. 

“He gone off in a snit again?” Sally replies, chin lifting as she crosses her arms at her chest.

John presses his lips together and tilts his head sharply to the right.  “Well, he’s gone off, yeah.”  John feels his head nod as his mouth presses into a tight-lipped smile that is completely without mirth.  “And he was more upset than I’ve seen him since—” the night he found out he was going to be a dad, John leaves off.  “What, Dono—Sally?  What happened?”

Donovan sighs, rubbing a hand idly over the very top of her belly, which is just starting to bump out.  “Look,” she starts. “I didn’t mean for… I wasn’t really talking about him—just thinking about the case and everything, and it all got a bit much.  He came in just as I was thinking out loud.  I think he heard me say ‘freak.’” 

John drops his chin to his chest and breathes once before meeting Sally’s eyes again.  He has absolutely no fucking idea what to say to her.  “You need to listen,” John says.  And because he is trying very hard not to shout, the next bit comes out in a sort of quiet hiss.  “That word is not okay.  Sherlock may be… different, but he is not a freak or a psychopath or whatever you’re choosing to call it today.  He is the father of your _bloody_ child.  That’s half of its DNA coming from the most brilliant—”  John has to cut himself off when he feels his voice rise once again to a near shout, and he realises that his hand is very nearly pointing at her belly. 

He clears his throat and forces his hands back to some sort of neutral posture.  “He’s unusual.  And he’s difficult—I _know_ that, but I want you to think for one second.  Because I’ve been watching.  How has he been these past few weeks since he found out you were pregnant?  How has he acted?  Hm?”  John pauses for a minute before continuing.  “Because if you’d open your bloody eyes for two bloody seconds, you’d see that he’s different when it matters.  What you say matters now because _you_ matter.  To him.  Your child matters.”

Donovan lets her hands drop down to her sides.  She hasn’t softened much, but the arrogant tilt of her chin has gone, and John only hopes some of that sunk in.  She sighs, relenting enough to say, “Tell him I’m… that I didn’t mean it.”

“Tell him yourself,” John says, and he turns away, walking the same path Sherlock took not ten minutes ago—back to the main road where he can get a taxi home.

====

Sherlock hangs his coat on the hook and heads straight to the bathroom.  He feels cold down to his bones, so he turns on the tap, letting the water run as hot as he thinks he can stand it.  While he waits, he takes off his clothes, draping them over the closed lid of the toilet.  The room is full of steam when he finally steps under the spray.

He stays there until the water starts to run cold.  He’s not entirely sure he actually feels any warmer.  He steps out, throwing a towel around his waist as he pads to his bedroom.  He can’t wrap his head around what he’s feeling, hates the emotion that is wringing out his insides.  He feels entirely unsure about what to do, about the most logical course of action.

He pulls a fresh pair of pajama bottoms and a tee shirt from a drawer and pulls them on.  He then falls face first onto his bed, arms bouncing a bit as he hits the mattress.  It smells of John in here now, and that is one thing that makes him feel… a bit more himself.  He breathes in deep.  He wants John with him now.  He breathes again and turns onto his back, rests his hands on his belly, and stares at the stains on the ceiling—one that’s been there since he moved in, one that’s only been there since an _incident_ with some mints and a bottle of Coke last summer.

He lets his mind drift to its palace, where he catalogues the facts of the Nelson case, storing them away in the appropriate wardrobes and cupboards.

He’s unsure how much time has passed when he feels a hand, warm and sure on his shoulder.  He opens his eyes to find John standing just over him.

“I’m sorry I left,” is the first thing Sherlock says.  “We’d agreed that I wouldn’t do that anymore.”

John smiles; it’s small but warm, and he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock.  “I knew where you were going.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I had a pretty good idea.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks, hesitance edging the rough tinge of his voice, the pinch of the skin around his eyes, the slight tightening of the muscles in his arms.

“Not particularly,” Sherlock says honestly.

“That’s fine.”  Sherlock is surprised at the utter openness in John’s face, that John is not holding back any words, is not pushing for more.  This time, he is just letting it be whatever it is.

“Come here,” Sherlock says, and he pulls John down to him by the arm and kisses his mouth.

John hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in hours, and Sherlock loves the singularity of that taste.  He imagines that he can taste each microscopic protein, each enzyme that makes John taste this way, entirely of himself.  He pushes his tongue in to get as much of it as he can.   John makes a soft little grunt and stretches out next to him, pushing fingers into his hair.

Sherlock pulls back only enough to slide his mouth, his tongue to John’s neck.  John stretches it out for him, and Sherlock smiles against his skin before nipping just below his jaw.  He needs more of John in his mouth.  He needs every inch.

John’s hands are under his tee shirt, stroking his back before lifting it off.  Sherlock leans away enough to begin working the buttons of John’s shirt—the red one today, one of his favourites, makes his eyes bluer—and he undoes each button with an opened mouth kiss to the skin underneath.  It’s salt and earth and everything that keeps him grounded.  Sherlock pauses at the skin after the fourth button, just over John’s heart, and he nuzzles there, feeling the rasp of hair, the warmth, the _warmth_.  John’s thumbs rub at his temples.

Sherlock makes fairly quick work of the rest of the buttons and slides the shirt off.  John leans back, letting Sherlock inhale him, run his tongue and mouth in a slow line down the centre of his chest to his belly, to the slight swell there (not as soft as it looks), tongue dipping into the naval.  John laughs.  “Tickles a bit,” he says, and Sherlock pauses to smile against it before moving on.

When he gets to John’s waistband, he pauses for a moment to tease, and John impatiently bucks.  Sherlock rubs his chin just above where the button of his jeans rests against his skin.  John shivers, and Sherlock feels his own spine vibrate with it.  God, he loves this (God, he loves John).

He pops the button and drags John’s jeans and pants down together, leaving John completely naked on the bed before him.  He looks over John’s entire body, watching as John stretches a bit, left hand moving behind his head on the pillow as the right one comes to brush Sherlock’s cheek.  There is so much affection there that Sherlock has to fight not to turn his face away from it.  He smiles instead, almost embarrassed.  Then, he dips his head to lick a wet stripe up the length of John’s penis, from base to frenulum.  He is nearly overwhelmed by the taste of John; it is exactly what he needs.  John gasps, legs twitching, and Sherlock wraps his mouth around his cock, tongue working as he slides up and down the length of him, hand making up for what his mouth can’t manage.

Every pant, every grunt, every moan John makes hits Sherlock square in the groin, and his own arousal is weighing hot and heavy in his pajamas.  The muscles in John’s thighs twitch, and he is nearly bucking into Sherlock’s mouth as he increases the pace.  Sherlock knows he’s close, so he wraps a hand around John’s hip as he sucks hard, moves his tongue back and forth along the underside, and then John is coming.  Sherlock swallows, strokes John’s thighs while he comes down, pulls away gently with a soft kiss to his inner thigh.

It’s only a moment before John is pulling Sherlock back up the bed to kiss his mouth, tongue hot and wet and delicious.  John rolls Sherlock to his back as he works his hand inside his pajamas, wrapping around his cock.  His fingers slide gloriously in the spreading wetness as he strokes him, touching Sherlock in exactly all the right places.  Sherlock can hear the sounds he’s making with each small thrust of his hips, needy even to his own ears.  The heat of John’s fingers on him is perfect, is everything, is _not enough_ because Sherlock needs more ( _more_ ).  John draws his mouth tight around Sherlock’s tongue, sucking, just as his fist does the same to Sherlock’s cock.  And that is all it takes before Sherlock’s vision sparks, and he comes hard with a groan. 

Sherlock pants against John’s mouth, inhaling his breath.  He feels sated and blissfully absent of any feeling at all except for this overwhelming _everything_ that he has in this bed with John.  He wants to seep in it, to stay here forever.  He shucks his dirty pajama bottoms, using them to clean himself as best he can before collapsing next to John.  He falls asleep with John’s mouth resting against his neck, John’s hands on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note: From next week, I'm moving posting day to Thursday.
> 
> Another little note--after much debate, I did decide, after this chapter, to go ahead and raise the rating to E, just to be on the safe side. 
> 
> Also a HUGE thank you to all of you lovely readers, especially those of you who have taken the time to comment, leave kudos, and bookmark. You are all wonderful!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Where were you?_

Sally texts Sherlock from the back of a taxi, on her way back to work. She’d had her first external scan today at the doctor’s, and Sherlock wasn’t there. He hasn’t missed any appointments before, and he’d even mentioned this one last week when they’d spoken. She doesn’t really want to admit to herself how odd she felt doing this alone, without Sherlock’s looming presence over the sonogram machine.

She swallows down the lump at the back of her throat that surfaces when she remembers that awful last time she and Sherlock had spoken, about the row that they’d never even finished before it all went an even wonkier pear shape. It’s far easier to feel annoyed.

Dr Moore hadn’t asked about him. Sally reckons that women must come in alone fairly frequently. There were other to-be single mothers in the world.   She’s beginning to learn enough about doing this whole pregnancy thing alone. After all, she is the one who had to throw out all of the mustard in the fridge, dry-heaving all the while, because just the sight of that thing she used to love makes her think of the _smell_ of the thing she used to love, which alone is enough to send her running to the toilet.

Thing is, she never, not after the first few doctor’s appointments with Sherlock, ever expected to go to one without him. It was unsettling, and she’d felt more alone than she’d thought possible.

Sally had tried phoning him the day after the cock-up at the Nelson home, but she’d only got his voicemail. She left a message saying that she was sorry for saying that thing she’d said and reminded him of this appointment. He’d not phoned or texted back, which Sally didn’t think was unusual. While their relationship had got better over the course of these last few months, she and Sherlock were still not even friends really. Just two people who happen to share the same space every once in a while, who happened to sleep together one time, who happen to be _having a baby together_.

In fact, the more she thinks about it, the angrier she gets. Fuck him. He should have been there. He said he would be there, would be involved. What the hell is he playing at? Does he think he can just pop into and out of her life (their lives) when it is convenient for him? Well, he’s got another thing coming. She’s had just about enough of men, always in an out at their own convenience.

And, fuck him even further because she just found out that they are going to have a daughter. A little girl! And she should be happy, not angry. She should be buying names books and mooning over pink dresses and tiny tea sets, not feeling abandoned and irritated.

A few minutes go by before she concedes that she won’t be getting an answer, so she texts again: _It’s a girl_.

She thinks about it a second, and then she texts her sister, too. Her phone is ringing before she even puts it back in her bag.

“Hello,” Sally answers.

“A girl! Really?” Alice says without saying hello.

Sally feels herself smile. “Yeah.”

“I’m so jealous. I always wanted a little girl. But, no—I’m stuck with all these stinky boys.”

Sally laughs. “You love it, though.”

“I do,” Alice replies. “So you just got back from the doctor, then?”

“Yep.”

“Everything else all right?” she asks.

“All right, yeah. Sherlock didn’t show.”

Alice sighs. “From what you’ve told me about that one, it’s no big surprise is it?”

Sally pauses because for her, it was. Sherlock has been to every other appointment. But, she’s also far from the mood where she would go defending him to her sister. “I guess so,” she says.

“Be careful, Sally.” Alice has that warning tone in her voice that she’s used since they were kids. “I don’t like that you’re all the way down there on your own.”

“I’m not on my own, Alice.”

“Oh, really,” she says, her tone still heavy on the other end of the line.

“Yes, really. I’m sure Sherlock was just busy with a case or something is all,” and she winces, recognising that she’s gone defending him anyway (but, really she’s only defending herself).

“Whatever you say,” Alice says. Sally can hear their dog barking in the background and the sound of a door banging open. “Look, I’ve got to run—Ethan’s just come in, and we’ve got to get up to the boys’ school tonight. They’re doing a play—‘The Ugly Duckling.’ And, holy Christ, I’ve been up to my elbows in papier mache, trying to work out exactly how to make something that even remotely resembles a duck. And then Matty went and painted his bright pink with orange polka-dots on, so it looks like a Sesame Street alien anyway.”

Sally laughs. “Yeah, right—I’ll let you get on, then.”

“But, you should come up for a visit soon.”

“I know,” Sally says.

“How about this weekend? Are you working? Can you get the time? I’d love to have a proper catch up. Can’t wait to see you now that you’ve got fat like me.”

“Shut up,” Sally says, smiling in earnest now. “I’m not fat. I’m pregnant.”

“Give it time, sis.”

Sally laughs again.

“I’ll see about it,” she says honestly. “I’ll see.”

“Good. Well, I’d _really_ better dash now. Talk later?”

“Yeah, talk later. Bye.”

“Love you, sis. Bye.”

Sally drops her phone back into her bag just as the taxi pulls up to the kerb at he NSY offices. She’s only got a couple of hours left before her shift is over, so she prays that London’s murderers will give her at least that much time to get her paperwork done and for someone else to come on shift before they rear their ugly heads.

After quickly checking her email, she fishes one of her teabags from her desk drawer and heads to the break room. She isn’t alone—Hopkins and Lestrade are sitting at the little table there, chatting animatedly about football. She gives them a small smile as she gets a cup and taps the switch on the kettle.

She’s just poured the water when Hopkins asks, “So, when are you due, then, Donovan?”

Sally takes a moment to shake her head in surprise. She hadn’t told anyone at work—no one since the Christmas do at Sherlock’s. But, she imagines that given her growing belly and sudden wardrobe change, the _detectives_ she works with would probably pick up the clue. Despite what Sherlock says, they aren’t actually idiots.

“Right,” she says, composing herself. “Er… mid June, actually.”

“Congratulations, then,” Hopkins says with a smile. Lestrade is smiling, too.

“Just found out it’s going to be a little girl, actually—just today.”

“Well done, Sally,” Lestrade says. Then he laughs a bit. “How’s he taking it?”

Before she can think of how to answer, Hopkins chimes in with, “Oh, who’s the lucky guy, then?”

Sally feels exceedingly uncomfortable, but it is what it is, and it’ll be out in the open sooner or later. She figures she might as well just say. “It’s er—Sherlock Holmes, actually.”

“Sherlock Holmes! Bloody hell! I didn’t know you two were—well, didn’t think he, you know, played for your team.”

At that, Sally’s discomfort bursts out of her in a quiet laugh. As she thinks about it, she’s fairly certain that he doesn’t actually—not usually. This whole thing has been beyond bizarre from the very start. She makes a vague gesture, shrugging as she bungs her tea bag into the bin.

“Do you think he and Watson… well, _you know_?”

Sally knows this is none of her business. Whatever Sherlock and Watson get up to in their own time is their business. She smiles a little as she sips from her mug. Then, she thinks about her lonely doctor’s visit and the unanswered texts she’d sent earlier. “You know,” she says. “They are very close… for mates.”

===

“Seriously, Sherlock?” John asks, catching up with Sherlock’s long strides as they walk away from the puppy mill behind them, leaving the police to make their arrests.

“I’m starving,” Sherlock says, ignoring his question. “Let’s get lunch. Italian?”

John doesn’t let it drop. “This is the sixth case from the website this week. How are you not going out of your skull? Dognapping? Really? Christ—even I’m getting bored.”

“There are no small cases, John, as you’ve so often told me.” Sherlock looks over to see John’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. “And private clients pay better.”

“Since when have you cared about any of that?”

“No, not Italian. Chippy.”

“Fine,” John says.

“But we’d better hurry. We’ve got a client meeting us at the flat at two. Her husband is having an affair. Most likely with her sister. Should be interesting.”

“No, Sherlock— _that_ is not interesting. _That_ is crap American talk show stuff from the telly.”

Sherlock smiles.

At the chippy, Sherlock’s phone message sounds just as the man behind the counter hands him two impressively large containers of fish and chips. “Get that, would you,” he says to John.

John sighs, but he reaches his hand into Sherlock’s coat pocket. The face is still lit up, and he sees John’s eyes scan it. John’s mouth forms a tight frown before he opens his mouth, then closes it. He hands Sherlock the phone.

“Sally Donovan. ‘Where were you?’ Did you have an appointment today?”

“Might have,” Sherlock answers. He hands John one of the overflowing paper containers and turns around to the counter with the condiments.

“Sherlock.”

“What? I was on a case.”

“ _Dognapping_ , Sherlock. You worked it out in five minutes.” John nudges him over with his elbow, reaching for a bottle of vinegar. He turns his attention to the task for a beat, but his eyes are back on Sherlock’s in seconds.

“John,” he says. He feels his face pull, his mouth turn downwards. John’s eyes go wide and inviting, and Sherlock feels something within his chest constrict. He fights not to physically shake his head. Some things should be left unsaid—not everything needs a conversation. He presses his lower lip to his upper one. “Pass me the vinegar.”

John looks disappointed, but he presses the bottle into Sherlock’s hand. As he takes it, Sherlock makes sure to run his forefinger over John’s deliberately. He tries to stifle his smile when John clears his throat. Sherlock shoots him a wry smirk and keeps eye contact as he licks salt from the pad of his thumb.

Just then, the message tone sounds again, and John turns the phone over in his hand. His mouth tightens again, and like that, Sherlock’s flirting ceases to be the distraction he wants it to be. “What?” Sherlock asks.

John sets the phone down on the counter and says gently, “Read for yourself.” Then, he turns to take his lunch to an open table.

Sherlock wipes his fingers on a paper serviette and presses the home button that brings up Sally’s two latest messages.

_Where were you?_

And then, _It’s a girl._

Sherlock blinks at it long enough for the face to black out. He presses the button again and slides the bar across the bottom that brings the whole thing to life. He opens the messaging app and pulls it up, just to read the words again. _It’s a girl._

He doesn’t know how to process this new information. He stands there until the screen goes dark again, and a man pushes by him with a “sorry” as he reaches across to grab a bottle of vinegar. It calls Sherlock’s focus present enough for him to step aside. He pockets his phone and meets John at the table.

John is poking at his fish with his fork. He clears his throat again before looking back up at Sherlock. “It’s been almost two weeks, Sherlock.”

He makes a show of sighing as he pops a chip into his mouth. “I know how long it’s been.”

“So, what are you doing then? With taking on every mundane case that comes across the website? Refusing Lestrade’s requests for help? Yeah—he phoned _me_ the other day to ask why you hadn’t returned his messages. This isn’t like you.”

Sherlock eats a bite of fish. There is this huge, gaping part of him that wants to tell John what’s going on, what he’s _feeling_. The trouble is, he cannot even begin to articulate it, even to himself. It is an intuition, as loathe as he is to rely on something so primitive; his backing away _is_ the best course of action, and it is wiser to do so now than to damage something so impressionable as a developing human mind.

And it’s all muddled even further because that _intuition_ on which he keeps relying seems to be at war with an equally loud and annoying train of thought that says _missing this_ , by choice, would be the absolute worst thing he could do. So, what is the right decision, then?

He cannot work it out, cannot find a way to make the pieces of this puzzle all fit neatly. He is unable to reconcile logic with intuition. And then there’s the other thing, the third variable, the one he is powerless to keep at bay—that great unnamable, terrible _something_ that makes him feel as though his heart is being wrung out to the point of bloodlessness. It is too much, and it is too important. He has no one to blame for the failings he will surely make but himself.

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock finally says, stalling (and he knows it).

“No,” John replies evenly. He points at Sherlock with his fork, waving it in small circles in the vague direction of Sherlock’s head. “What’s going on up there?”

He doesn’t know. _He doesn’t know_. “Why would it matter to you?” he bites. And, the minute he does, he knows he’s both won and lost. John shuts down, relents, but the look on his face hurts almost physically, like a hard slap across his face. Sherlock knows it’s what he deserves.

“Well, tuck in, then. Better hurry.” John says, not quite animatedly enough to be sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to be late for our next client.”

It is for the best, Sherlock thinks. If he backs out of this thing with Sally now, it will be kinder, ultimately. He can provide monetary support, will always do so. Eventually, he can have Mycroft set up surveillance and security so he’s informed, so he can keep them safe. His staying away is only logical. Besides—he has John. That’s all the family he really needs.

===

Sally drops her bag on the chair in her living room and flips on the telly. She lets the BBC evening news drone behind her as she heads straight for the bath. She’d spent hours in the cold early March drizzle today. They’re working what is now apparently a string of murders—uni students, all with top marks, all from respectable families, all found with throats slit and wearing clothes that did not belong to them. Even she has to admit that they need help on this one. It would be the perfect case for Sherlock. Lestrade said he’d called him in a week ago, but Sherlock had turned them down.

He’d missed another doctor’s appointment as well. Sally doesn’t really understand it, and at the minute, she’s too tired to be all that bothered. She peels off her shirt and trousers, socks and pants, and takes a minute in front of the mirror while the tub continues to fill. Her body is different. She takes in the swell of her stomach which seems to be getting bigger by the day now, the stretch marks that are running along the sides (she’s got a crème for that which she’ll use after the bath). Surprisingly, the thought makes her smile; her daughter is growing. She hasn’t really felt any kicks yet—just a few flutters every now and again. Dr Moore told her not to worry about it, that it was normal for first time mums to take a while to notice. All the scans and tests show that everything is moving along as it should be.

She runs a hand from the top of the swell to the bottom and back up again.

“You in there, little girl?” she asks softly, tipping her head downward. “It’s been a bit of a day, hasn’t it?” She rubs the top curve again before stepping into the bath and turning off the taps.

When she’s out, she’ll call her sister. Her visit to visit her in York a few weeks ago had indeed brought them closer. It was lovely, actually, to see Alice and her family, to see what normal must look like. She knows she’ll never have that, but it was nice to see the possibility. Quiet street, bustling house, somewhat doting husband, two mad little boys. The entire weekend was busy, full in a way that her own never were. It was kiddie football matches and toy cars on the stair landings and the smell of tempera paint. But there were quiet moments, too—a cup of tea after the boys had gone to bed where she, Alice, and Ethan shared some of the better stories of their own childhood.

“Have you told Mum?” Alice asked once Ethan had stepped out, giving them some sister time.

“Yeah,” Sally said. “She reacted about like I expected. She wasn’t at all surprised that her slutty daughter had finally got herself knocked-up. Said she was amazed it hadn’t happened sooner. I could hear the ice rattling round in her drink.”

Alice had put her hand on top of Sally’s and squeezed. “I’m sorry about when you first told me, you know.”

“I know.” They were quiet for a moment before Sally spoke again. “I wish you weren’t so bloody far away.”

“What’s keeping you in London, then?” Alice’s eyes, so much like her own stared at her from a face that was rounder, skin a little darker. “This Sherlock—you aren’t together, and you can do police work anywhere. Ethan works for the Council. I’m sure he could put in a word for you here—if you wanted.”

Sally sighed and told her that her life was in London. Alice asked her to think about it.

And, as Sally thinks about it, she knows that it wouldn’t be all that difficult to make the move. It might even be better in the end—to move closer to her family, for her daughter to have her cousins nearby, to maybe take a position with a smaller unit that wouldn’t keep her up to her eyeballs in gang violence and botched drugs deals.

She’s got a little time to think yet, and she will. But, what seemed like a ridiculous idea when Alice first mentioned it months ago is now looking more and more appealing, more like the right thing to do. She knows she should talk to Sherlock about it, but with the way things have gone with him lately, he’s not likely to even take her call.

She plunges her head under the surface and lets the water completely encase her for a moment, relishing the quiet, hearing nothing but her own heartbeat in her ears for just a couple of seconds. She listens, but she can’t hear the other one (though she knows it’s there). When she lifts her head out, she can faintly hear the news on the telly at a distance. She blinks water out of her lashes, takes a deep breath, and decides to speak with Lestrade tomorrow.

===

John steps into the café and chooses a panini from the case. He hands it to the girl behind the counter to be grilled and pays for it along with a packet of crisps and a cup of tea. As he waits, he takes his phone from his pocket to check the time. This morning, he’d seen three cases of flu, two common colds, one nasty rash, and one even nastier ingrown toenail. He’s got forty minutes until he’s due back, so once he’s got his sandwich back, he makes his way to a table and takes the paperback from his pocket to read.

He manages all of half a page before Mycroft Holmes sits himself in the chair opposite him at the small table. “Good afternoon, Dr Watson,” he says, expression dangerously mild.

“Mycroft.” John closes his book and sets it on the table between them before raising his chin, squaring his shoulders. “What’s up?”

Mycroft’s mouth twists in what could be either disgust or amusement. “It must be dreadfully slow indeed, if you’re back to the surgery three days a week.”

John takes a bite of his sandwich. He won’t tell Mycroft that it is— _dreadfully_ slow. It’s been more than a month since they’d been on a case worth working, much less worth writing up. And now, Sherlock’s finally got thoroughly bored with taking every client the website brought them, so he’s turned their flat into what could easily pass as the set of a B-rate sci-fi film from the nineteen fifties. The whole of it is littered with elaborate configurations of bubbling beakers and odorous smoke of varying colours. He also won’t tell Mycroft that Sherlock is looking every bit the mad scientist—manically pacing the flat, muttering gibberish with a pencil between his teeth, dressing gown fluttering out behind him, and wild curls long overdue for a haircut.

“Do you have a case for us, then?” John feels the stirrings of real hope in his chest, but he makes sure to keep his voice even.

“Not presently.”

John lets out a breath through his nose. “Well, and not that I don’t love these little chats of ours, but what do you want?”

“Oh, I have simply come to inquire on how things are going. Business. Impending fatherhood.”

“I’ve told you before, Mycroft. If you want to know what’s going on with Sherlock, talk to Sherlock.”

The ghost of a frown appears around Mycroft’s mouth. “He won’t return my calls.”

John feels his mouth turn down. If Sherlock’s life-avoidance has gone so far as to attract Mycroft’s attention, perhaps he should worry a bit more than he has done. John has, up till now, simply assumed that Sherlock would go through this, like any of his other dark moods, and emerge when he’d worked through it or when the right puzzle came along.

“You are worried about him.”

“Yes,” John says before he can fully censor himself. Then he nearly fully relents, pinching the bridge of his nose before saying, “Yes, all right. He hasn’t been himself lately. I think he’s scared.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft pulls his phone from the inside front pocket of his pinstriped suit jacket. “I think it’s time I called in the proper reinforcements.” He presses a few buttons and looks down, waiting for whomever he’s ringing to answer.

Who in the world would Mycroft consider ‘reinforcements?’ If neither he nor Sally, Lestrade, or Mycroft could get Sherlock to get back to reality, who could? John doesn’t really want to think about the _resources_ at Mycroft’s disposal.

John watches Mycroft’s mouth twist. “Yes, hello,” he says into the phone. Then John listens to Mycroft’s one-sided conversation with a look of utter confusion on his face.

“Yes, fine.”

“All right.”

“I think it’s overdue time you paid London a proper visit.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

“Yes, me, too.”

“I will see you soon.”

“Good bye.”

Mycroft ends the call and takes a moment to look at the black face of it for a moment before pocketing it smoothly.

“And who was that?”

Mycroft takes a breath and looks John square in the eye. “Mummy.”

John blinks.

“Our parents will be here tomorrow afternoon.”

===

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a million bajillion thanks to Fiona_Fawkes for her advice and help with this chapter. Also, thanks so much also to SilentAuror who also helped immeasurably. Thank you, lovely ladies!
> 
> Also, thanks to you, fair readers--for reading, commenting, kudosing, and bookmarking. You are just the bee's knees (and you oughta know it ;-))


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock wakes warm and content, bright sunlight streaming through the window and John’s back flush against his chest. His own arm is across John’s waist, on a strip of skin where his tee shirt has ridden up in the night. He carefully fits his hand underneath the fabric, flattening his hand against the bare skin of John’s chest to feel the pulsing there, heartbeat sure and sleep-slowed. He rubs his thumb slowly back and forth over the muscle, his toes along John’s calf, and he nuzzles into the short hair at John’s nape. When he feels John stir, he plants a kiss there, pleased at John’s low hum of pleasure.

“Good morning,” John says, voice gravelly with sleep.

Sherlock moves his lips to the place just behind John’s jaw. “Good morning,” he murmurs into the skin there, pulling John even closer.

John is smiling when he turns around in Sherlock’s arms, rolling him enough to be lying half on top of Sherlock, pressing into his body. He kisses Sherlock’s mouth. His breath is a bit sour, but Sherlock doesn’t care. Another hum. John rocks against him so Sherlock can feel John’s erection against his own.

Sherlock has learned that John rather fancies morning sex. He’s also learned that he is more than happy to oblige. He reaches toward the nightstand, toward the drawer there for the bottle of lubricant, and he smiles wickedly as John’s eyes go ink dark at the sight, even in the bright morning sunlight.

“A really good morning, then,” John says, sitting up long enough to strip off his tee shirt before falling back, letting Sherlock roll on top of him, straddling hips.

“I should hope so,” Sherlock replies, dropping the bottle next to him on the bed so he can run his hands along the length of John’s thighs before sliding off his pants as well. Sherlock bends at the waist, bypassing John’s ready mouth at the last second to instead plant a series of opened-mouthed kisses along his jaw, enjoying the feel of John’s stubble against his lips, the rasping sound it makes. Sherlock mouths that faint line of hair to where it disappears beneath John’s chin. Sherlock draws a bit of that smooth skin into his mouth, sucking at the spot that makes John groan for him, arching his neck even further. Sherlock smiles to himself as he moves slowly down the length of John’s body, pressing his stomach into John’s erection, rolling a bit to grant a little friction, groaning himself when John leans his thigh against Sherlock’s hardness.

Sherlock follows the length of John’s collarbone with the edge of his teeth, the slick slide of his tongue, slow enough to make him shiver. He lays splayed fingers over John’s ribcage, softly tracing their outline before bringing his thumbs to scratch around his nipples. He lowers his mouth to one of them, feeling its texture beneath his tongue as he rolls the other one between his fingers. John gasps, squirming impatiently beneath him.

John is swearing now, muttering complete nonsense under his breath, and when he reaches for Sherlock’s penis, Sherlock only bats his hands away. He stretches his body back over John’s so that he’s able to whisper directly into his ear. “Not yet,” he says, making his voice as deep and as low as he can manage. John whimpers before pulling Sherlock’s mouth to his, one hand smoothing down his shoulder blade to rest on his waist, the other against Sherlock’s jaw.

When Sherlock straightens back up, he squeezes lubricant onto his hands, licking his lips as he spreads it over John’s penis, stroking lazily. John’s hands fall to the top of Sherlock’s thighs, where he digs the tips of his fingers in to the skin, almost to the point of pain. The little noises John makes at this are better than any symphony, his favourite aria. He winds the fingers of his clean hand with John’s. “I want you,” Sherlock says, guiding John’s hand behind him in a trail from the base of his spine to his anus. “Inside me.”

John whimpers again as Sherlock squeezes lubricant onto John’s fingers before John begins to work Sherlock with gentle touches, massaging and working until Sherlock himself is panting and ready. He gently pulls John’s hand away from him, laughing a little as John awkwardly wipes it as clean as he can on the bed sheet. He catches Sherlock’s eye and smiles, shrugging. Sherlock leans forward to kiss his lips, adding a little more lubricant to John’s penis. Sherlock makes his smile go wide and before licking a sloppy stripe along John’s lower lip.

“Oh, God,” is all John says when Sherlock shifts just enough to guide John where he needs to be. He sinks down slowly, watching John’s face all the while—mouth open, eyes fallen shut, sunlight making his eyelashes nearly glow at the tips. John’s hand grasps the back of his upper arm as he tugs Sherlock down just a bit before he leans up to kiss him properly.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers as he begins to move. John answers by deepening the kiss, rocking with the slow and steady pace Sherlock has set. It’s a heartbeat, one they share, rising now with every whispered curse, every grunted name, every cry of pleasure. John’s hand strokes him, matching the thrumming inside Sherlock’s chest, the movement of his hips.

Sherlock feels his muscles tightening, the heat inside a slow burn, melting him down, destroying him until there is nothing of himself left, there is only _them_. Like that’s all there ever was, all there ever needs to be. And, when he comes, he is shouting John’s name like a curse, and when John follows, he is saying Sherlock’s like a prayer. Sherlock is absolutely sure that complete obliteration should not feel quite this spectacular.

“Good God,” John says when Sherlock is back lying at his side. “That was amazing.” His is smiling, and Sherlock turns his head toward him on the pillow.

“You really think so?”

“Shut up,” John says with a small laugh. “Now you’re just fishing.” He smoothes a hand down Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock nuzzles into the space between John’s shoulder and neck, skin growing a little sticky as his sweat dries. He breathes deeply; he could lie here all day.

John inhales suddenly, sitting up. “Shit. What time is it?”

Sherlock groans as John shifts away to check the clock on the table. “Come back here,” he says. “It’s cold.”

“Christ, it’s nearly eleven.”

“So,” Sherlock says. “You aren’t working today.”

John clears his throat. “No,” he says, and his voice is odd—hesitant, guarded. “But we should get up anyway. Get dressed.” Sherlock knows what he’s doing; this is John telling him to put on proper clothes. When Sherlock starts to feel his own mouth turn down, John pulls him in for another kiss.

Sherlock pulls away, letting his fingers trail along the skin covering John’s ribs as he does so. “I suppose you’re right. I need to check the cultures in the microwave. They should be ready by now.”

“You want the first shower?” John asks.

“We could save both time and energy if we went in together.”

“Then we’d never get going. No—I’ll make us some tea. You go.”

Sherlock goes. He has to admit, he seems to be much more susceptible to John’s less-than-subtle hints about getting dressed after particularly mind-blowing orgasms.

When he makes his way back to the living room in actual trousers and a white button-down, he absolutely catches the smirk John tries to cover by taking a sip of tea. Smug is a good look on John. He makes a mental note to put it there more often.

John pushes a mug into his hands as he leaves to get dressed himself. He’s left a couple of pieces of toast on the desk, so Sherlock eats them before indeed checking the cultures and writing up the results. He’s typing them up into the beginnings of a blog entry when John also comes down in his nice blue jumper, the one he usually reserves for dates. Interesting.

Sherlock continues to type but keeps an eye on John as he tidies the living room, gathering newspapers into stacks and herding mugs and plates into the sink, where he’s doing the washing up.

When John reaches in front of Sherlock on the desk to straighten the files and papers there, Sherlock closes the lid of his laptop. “What are you doing?” he asks plainly.

“What?” John says, stepping back, hands falling to his sides.

“Well, you’ve got on your Date Jumper, have done all the washing up, and now you are _tidying_. Anything I should know about?”

John clears his throat. Sherlock is fairly certain he’s caught murderers in the act who looked less guilty.

“Sherlock, I—” but John’s explanation is cut off by the sound of the doorbell. Ah. He _is_ expecting company, then. “I’ll go see to the door,” John says, and he is out of the flat in a flash.

Sherlock instantly goes to the window to gather whatever he can from the street view. Nothing. Mrs Hudson must have let in their guests because he hears movement in the hall even as John’s footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs. He presses his lips together. Has John invited Harry for lunch? He always does get intensely fussy about cleanliness when he is steeling himself for family. Must be his military training; old habits. But then, there are more than two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs, and he knows instantly who it is. Family, indeed. Just, not John’s.

Within moments, the door to their flat opens again, and Sherlock watches as his brother and parents enter the room just ahead of a sheepish looking John.

“Oh, delightful,” Sherlock says, making eye-contact with Mycroft before pointedly turning away. “Everyone’s here.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” his mother says. “It’s been far too long.” She walks over to him, arms outstretched for a hug, and he is powerless to escape it. He turns toward her, letting his arms go around her back as she wraps hers around him. The Estee Lauder and Extra peppermint gum smell of her makes him feel as though he’s about twelve years old again, which is equally unnerving and comforting. He smiles a little into the top of her head. She fusses with the hair covering his ears. “You really should get a haircut, dear.”

“Mummy,” he says. “How wonderful for you to have made the journey.” When his mother pulls back, he looks to his father. “Hello, Dad.”

His dad gives him a warm smile and steps in to hug him as well. It’s a quick thing, ending with a masculine cuff to his upper arm.

Sherlock watches John’s face as he follows the movement, something like a kitten watching a tennis match. If he wasn’t so annoyed at present, he would probably find it all rather endearing. At the sound of John clearing his throat, he steps back to make introductions.

“This is John Watson,” Sherlock says, and John smiles at them both, extending his hand. His father shakes it heartily even as his mother draws him in for a hug.   “Oh yes, we met on the stairs,” she says cheerily. “You’re the one that keeps the internet journal.”

“Blog,” Sherlock corrects absently, turning to Mycroft.  

“Whatever it is,” his mother says, waving him off. Her eyes don’t waver from Sherlock’s face as she continues. “Without it we’d likely never know what’s going on with our son. He’s ever so dreadful about keeping in touch.”

“And my big brother,” Sherlock says to Mycroft, changing the subject, smiling as wide as he can manage, baring all of his teeth. “What could have prompted you to arrange this surprise family reunion?” Sherlock’s voice is flat. “Or is it that you need a little extra practise at arranging guerilla warfare? Things not quite going your way in Uganda?”

Mycroft doesn’t respond but to lift his chin. His mother swats at Sherlock’s arm. “Do stop needling your brother. Mikey said he was worried about you and that we should come, so here we are.”

John cannot control his bark of laughter at _Mikey_. He covers by clearing his throat and asking what everyone takes in their tea before disappearing into the kitchen.

Sherlock indicates that his parents should have a seat on the sofa, and he pulls out his hard desk chair for Mycroft, planting it with some force where he sets it perpendicular to the coffee table. He then drags over the other desk chair, and heads to the kitchen to get a chair from in there for John. He has his back to Sherlock as he pours water from the kettle into their best teapot and lays cups and saucers on a tray. Sherlock glares at him when he finally turns around. John looks wounded for a moment before returning the glare head-on, setting his jaw. Easy enough to read: John is not sorry.

Once everyone has a cup, his mother explains in careful detail about the different special offers on baked beans at Tesco as opposed to Morrison’s and how it is just a _scandal_ that the exact same product should sell for ten pence cheaper at one, _even with a coupon_ —Mycroft cuts her off.

“Mummy,” he says. “And Dad. Now that we’ve all got settled in, I do believe that Sherlock has a bit of news for you both.”

Sherlock huffs. “John and I are together. I’m gay. There.”

His father smiles a bit before chuckling softly into his jumper. His mother pats him on the leg. “Oh, my boy,” she says to Sherlock. “We’ve known _that_ since you were little. It is rather plainly obvious.” She sets her teacup down on the table and leans over to pat Sherlock’s cheek. “Though, we’re very happy you’ve decided to tell us now.” Then she looks to John. “Mikey tells us that you’re a doctor.”

John shakes his head a bit before nodding it instead. “Yeah. Yes. I am.”

Sherlock’s mother reaches out to squeeze John’s hand. “That is just wonderful,” she says, and Sherlock hears the slight waver in her voice that. Is she happy? Why is she? Sherlock looks to John, who just gives him a warm smile. Sherlock feels his irritation with him evaporate completely.

Mycroft’s smile is nearly predatory when he speaks again. “Oh, but that’s not the only bit of news, is it?”

Sherlock growls at him. Damn. Damn, _Damn_. He wasn’t aware of John getting up from his seat until he feels his solid presence behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Absently, he brings up his own to rest on top of it for a moment.

“Oh, dear,” his mother says. “Are you ill?”

“No,” he hears John says, squeezing his shoulder.

“No,” Sherlock says. “I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Well then,” his father says. “What is it?” There is an edge of concern there, and for a moment, Sherlock recognises that he feels wretched at having not told them sooner.

Sherlock feels the same sense of panic and dread trickling down his spine as he did just before the announcement at the Christmas do. Perhaps he should have invited his parents because _this_ —is not easier the second time round. Especially now that he’s made his decision.

Sherlock closes his eyes for a beat, takes a breath.

“I’m going to have a baby,” he says, choosing his words carefully. Because he’s not going to be a father. If anything, he has become nothing more than financially responsible a sperm donor. _It’s for the best_ , he tells himself. _It’s for the best_. _It’s for the best_.

“Oh!” his mother is cooing. “A grandchild! Are you adopting? The Hendersons from the line dancing society have a gay son, and he and his husband just adopted a little boy from Africa! Are you going to Africa? I’ve always said you should travel more, haven’t I, dear.” His father is nodding, smiling. Sherlock has to look away.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not—It won’t be like that.”

“What?” his mother says, looking deflated and confused. Sherlock chews his bottom lip.

“I think it’s best if I continue to give financial support but otherwise let Sally handle it.”

“Who’s Sally?” his father asks.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, clearing his throat. “I, er—Sally Donovan is the woman whom I—impregnated.”

His father begins coughing, and his mother is blinking rapidly. “What?” she asks, sounding affronted. She doesn’t let him answer before she’s speaking again, getting to her feet. “Do you mean that there’s some poor girl out there, pregnant. With your child! And you are just going to do nothing about it? I did not raise my sons to—” She cuts herself off as she inhales, eyes going wide. “And _you’re_ all right with this?” she asks John, and now Sherlock is starting to feel something like true panic roil around in his gut. How on earth does he explain all of this to his parents? His mother continues, “Well! My, my—times really have changed if—”

“Mummy,” Sherlock says sharply, and she stops talking at once. His eyes find his father instead. He’s got his hands folded together hanging loosely between his knees and he is looking down into his lap, but Sherlock can still see his face—the lines there, the shadows. He’s never seen that dark look on his father’s face before. It hits him straight in the gut like a punch.  He has to turn away from it, finding his mother’s face instead, splotchy and red with anger. It is not much better.

“The pregnancy happened before John and I got together,” he says. “You know my methods. You know I’ve given this _ample_ consideration. And, you know that I—what I was like as a child, what I’m like as an adult. I’m hardly fit for fatherhood! This decision is the right one. I’m not doing _nothing_ , as you say. I will provide—“

“Sherlock Holmes,” His mother cuts him off again, not having softened in the least. She walks toward his chair, and Sherlock stands in a futile effort to gain a little control. “If you think I’m going to sit idly by while some stranger raises _my grandchild_ as my son sits back…” She lets her voice trail off, but her eyes are boring into Sherlock’s, and even though he has at least six inches on her, he feels as though he has shrunk to a height of approximately three feet.

He hears John clear his throat again. “Mrs Holmes,” he says. “Could you please help me with something in the kitchen?” Sherlock watches as he places a hand on her back to guide her. She resists—feet remaining firmly planted in their spot, eyes searing through Sherlock. “Let’s see if we can find you something a bit stronger than tea, hm?” John says, trying again, and she reluctantly goes.

He catches John’s eye as he crosses the threshold into the kitchen, silently thanking him for being John, for smoothing over the most basic human interactions at which Sherlock manages to fail, even with his own mother. John shakes his head a bit, but brings his focus quickly back to the hysterical woman bracing her hands on their worktop. His father is still looking lost on the sofa, and Mycroft is in his chair with his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You should know, Sherlock,” he says without looking up. “Sally Donovan has sent an inquiry about a transfer to Yorkshire. Do you have any idea as to what might have prompted her to do so?”

Sherlock feels the breath leave his lungs. He doesn’t know now what to say or do. He only knows that his hands have begun to tremble; he needs to get out.

He crosses the room to the bison skull and reaches behind it for the package of cigarettes he hid there last week. His fingers fumble a bit when he flips open the top to find the lighter still tucked in. Without a word, he shrugs on his coat and heads outside, ignoring the prickly feeling of Mycroft’s eyes on him as he goes.

The first pull on the cigarette is nearly blissful, as is the cool spring air against his heated face. He lets the smoke fill his lungs and allows his mind go still as he watches the white curls dance around him in a sort of chaotic grace before floating away, dissipating into nothingness. At the sound of the door opening, he turns, expecting John. Instead, he schools his face and posture to hide the surprise that it is instead his father descending the steps, zipping his jacket against the chill.

“Dad,” Sherlock says, trying very hard to keep petulance from his tone. “I don’t really want to discuss this any further.”

His father steps up next to him. “Your mother doesn’t like it when you do that,” he says, waving his first two fingers in the direction of the lit cigarette.

Sherlock doesn’t respond but to flick his ash on the concrete below. He clears his throat and takes another drag. His father also says nothing, the silence between them stretching out long enough for Sherlock to drop his finished cigarette to the ground. Whatever his father has come out to say, he will get to it in his own time. That is one of the few characteristics they actually share. He lights another cigarette.

“When you were little,” his father finally starts. “You used to like for me to read to you before you fell asleep.” Sherlock tries not to roll his eyes. “Every night, for over a year—I think you were about three at the time— you wanted to hear _The Cat in the Hat_. Sometimes other stories, too, but always _The Cat in the Hat_. Got to where I could read it to you without even looking at the words.”

He watches as his father smiles, remembering, and then he puts on a silly approximation of an American accent. “‘Have no fear!’ said the cat.” Sherlock looks to the ground, hiding the smile that breaks on his face unbidden. As his father continues, Sherlock feels his lips mouth the familiar words along with him, despite his sour mood. “‘I will not let you fall. I will hold you up high as I stand on a ball.’” His father chuckles as the line ends.

“I remember,” Sherlock says quietly as his smile fades. He watches the ember at the end of his cigarette, eating away at the paper and tobacco all on its own. He flicks more ash to the ground.

“It was about that time when I realised you were going to be more like your mother and Mycroft than you were going to be like me. Extraordinary, the lot of you.” At this, his father meets his gaze and holds it, reminding Sherlock so very much of John in that moment. “You are _extraordinary_ , my son. It sometimes takes other people a while to truly appreciate it, I know. But, I see it—always have done. And John sees it. And others—once you give them a chance.”

Sherlock looks away to take a drag from his cigarette, which had begun to go out.

“Your mother was always the smart one of the two of us, but _I_ was the one who you wanted to read with. You liked my silly voices, I think. You were able to read the words yourself by this time, but at bedtime, you still wanted me to do it. I wonder why. We’re not much alike, you and me—are we? And yet…” His father smiles at him, a crooked thing that turns up both corners of his mouth. “It was the absolute highlight of my every day. I would not have missed it for the world.”

“What exactly is your point, Dad?” Sherlock drops the spent cigarette to the pavement and crushes it under his toe.

“I don’t think I have one, really. It’s just—it would be quite a shame for you to miss out on those simple things from fear of being different from your child.”

“Daughter,” Sherlock corrects automatically. “It’s going to be a girl.”

They are quiet again for a long time, both of them letting the sounds of the city fill the space as they trace the tops of the buildings with their eyes. When Sherlock risks meeting his father’s face again, he sees tears there, filling the corners but not quite spilling. At the sight, he feels his own chest constrict with that heart-wringing pain that seems to be ever lurking in his most quiet moments. He feels the back of his throat burn with something other than nicotine, his eyes prickle though the smoke is long gone. He lets out a breath. “I am… not _normal_ , Dad. I… What if I can’t love her the way she needs? What if I hurt her?”

He feels his dad’s arm come to rest across his shoulders. “Weren’t you the one who always told me that _normal is boring_?”

===

“Is that H or B?” Molly asks, face scrunched up as she turns the thin piece of wood around for Sally to see.

“Er,” Sally says, “I think it might be… let’s go with H.”

Molly nods. “H it is!” and she lays it out flat in the space they’ve cleared in her bedroom for all the parts of the ‘some assembly required’ dresser-slash-changing table she’d bought this afternoon.

So far, all the pieces are accounted for, which is not to say that her actual sanity is anywhere within reach. It’s mad, all of these bits and pieces. “So what do we do first, then?” Sally asks as Molly turns the instruction sheet over in her hand.

“I think,” she says, walking over to one of the long pieces of wood, “that we have to connect these ones to this one, and it will eventually make the side of the dresser.” She drops the sheet down to the floor and takes a seat, cross-legged and begins to fit things together. “Right,” she says after a bit. “You hand me one of those screws in that pile, and we’ll fix it this way.” Sally does, and it seems to work. She scoops the pile of screws into her hand and piles them on the instruction sheet and sets the lot between them before doing her best to sit on the floor without actually falling there. Her growing belly has begun to make even the simple task of sitting and standing a chore these days. She manages to flop down, if not gracefully, then at least without upsetting the pile of screws. Well done, then.

They work on their own respective pieces, and after half an hour, it actually begins to take shape (well, aside from the two extra little plastic bits that fit _absolutely_ nowhere). Molly stands to shift her piece to lean against the side of the bed, and then she lifts Sally’s as well, resting it against the foot. Sally tries to get up as well, but she’s suddenly turned entirely into knees that won’t go where they need to be and a center of gravity that has her teetering to the ground before she’s even halfway up. Molly holds out a hand to help, which Sally gratefully accepts.

“Thanks,” Sally says.

Molly smiles. “You’re quite welcome. Looks like we’ve got the big ones out of the way—what do you say we break for a bit?”

“Yes,” Sally says, holding the small of her back and attempting to blow an errant curl from her forehead. “I’m actually bursting for the loo.”

Molly laughs. “Said like a true pregnant lady.”

“Well, I am what I am,” Sally says, laughing lightly as she heads into the bathroom.

When she comes out a few minutes later, Molly hands her a cup of tea. “Helped myself to your kitchen,” she says. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit. Thanks,” Sally says. “I also promised you dinner. Do you want pizza?”

“Sounds great,” Molly replies.

Sally orders for delivery, and they get back to work on the dresser while they wait.

The bell rings just as they’ve fitted together the main parts—perfect timing. The only thing left to do is to fit in the other little plastic finishing things that cover the screws.

“You think you can manage these while I grab the door?” Sally asks.

“Sure thing.”

Sally grabs money from her purse on her way to answering the door. “Sorry that took so long,” she says without quite looking up. “What was the total?” She looks up, not to the pizza delivery guy, but to Sherlock Holmes.

Sally feels her face turn to stone. She can’t think of one thing to say to him, not one. So, she crosses her arms over her belly and glares—it’s a tried and true tradition between them. She doesn’t miss the widening of his eyes as he looks at her belly. Well, she’s changed a lot in the nearly two months since she’d last seen him.

“Sally,” he says. “May I come in?”

“What for?” she asks.

He pulls his face, pressing his lips together. She notices that he has a bag, plain and brown, hanging from his fingers. She doesn’t move, still doesn’t know what to say. “You’re an arsehole,” is what comes out.

Sherlock swallows. “Can I please just come in. I would like to speak with you.”

“Right,” Sally says. “So now that _you_ want to, I’m supposed to just let you right back in as if everything’s wonderful? What—should I be happy? God, _grateful_?” She has to admit that he does look pitiful, is absolutely certain that she’s never seen him look truly sorry before.

“I don’t know what to say, Sally. If you would only—” He’s interrupted when the pizza delivery man comes walking up, brushing past him to ring the bell. It sounds through the open door. Confused, he looks to Sherlock and then to Sally. “Did you order a pizza?” he asks Sally.

“Yes,” Sally says. He hands her the box, and she takes it, shoving notes into his hand quickly.

“This is too much. It’s only—”

“I don’t care. Call it a tip. Bye.”

He makes a face that seems to say _well, all right then_ , and turns to Sherlock, whispering just loud enough for Sally to hear. “You should have brought flowers. My girlfriend always lets me in if I’ve brought flowers, even after a really massive row.”

“Oh, my God,” Sally says. “Can you just leave?”

“Fine,” the pizza guy says, and he turns on his heel, shoving the money into his pocket as he goes.

Sherlock lips twitch a bit at the corners. “Would flowers have helped?”

Sally sighs. “Might have done.” She opens the door wide in passive invitation, immediately turning round to set the pizza on the coffee table.

Molly comes in from the bedroom saying, “Oh! That smells really nice.” She stops short. “Sherlock?”

“Molly,” he says with a nod, giving an awkward little wave without really lifting his arm.

Sally watches as Molly eyes him for a minute, and then like a light has turned on, she whispers, “Oh!” under her breath and smiles. Then, she grabs her coat, saying “You know what? I—I’ll j-just… my, you know—my _coat_. I’ll ring you later, Sally, okay? Okay. Er, bye,” and she’s out the door, leaving Sherlock standing in her living room, scrutinizing it—seemingly taking in every minute detail of it at once.

Sally has never been more aware of the dust on the television cupboard or the tea cup she never cleared up from this morning or the placement of the magazines on her coffee table. Thankfully, he says nothing about any of it, only makes his way to one of the living room chairs and sits down. He drops the bag as he does, so that it leans against the side of the chair. She follows, taking a seat on the sofa, inwardly wincing at the funny way she has to twist in order to do so.

“So,” Sally says. She looks Sherlock square in the eye, daring him to say something, _anything_ that would make her not actually, physically hate him.

“First, Sally,” Sherlock says. “I need to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been absent.”

“Absent is one word for it, yes.” Sally says. “Is that what you call doing a complete runner from your entire life, then?” She laughs humourlessly. “Shit—wish I could just decide to not have to deal with this whole _tedious_ pregnancy sometimes, too.”

“That’s really not it, you know,” Sherlock says, voice even. He clears his throat. “Look,” he starts. “After the Nelson case, I realised—wrongly now, I think, but at the time and for a long time after that—I truly thought it would be better, that you both would be better off if I… decided not to be involved. So, I made what I thought was the best decision. I understand now that it was the wrong choice, and I’ve come here to ask if the offer of _involvement_ still stands.”

“And what happens the next time you decide leaving is for the best? What about the time after that?”

“It will not happen again. That, I can promise you.”

“Isn’t that what you said the first time? You can’t do that, Sherlock. You can’t just pop in and out whenever things get hard, whenever you’re angry with me, whenever you feel scared. You think I’m not scared shitless every single day about this? Oh, my God—you really do have the world’s most massive ego.”

Sherlock growls in frustration, leaning forward to run his hands over his hair, back to front. “What can I say, Sally?” he asks, looking back up to her. His eyes are pleading. “I am sorry. I really messed this up. I want to change this.” He reaches down for the sack and holds it out to her.

“What is it?” Sally asks.

“Take it,” Sherlock says. “It’s a—present. For the baby.”

“All right.” She takes the sack, and the minute she does, she knows what’s inside—but why? She lifts out a copy of _The Cat in the Hat_ , and she stares at it for a minute. “You do know that this is a bit premature, even if she does end up with your super smart gene.”

“I know that. I just thought—hoped—you would allow me back, so that someday I could read it to her.”

And, it’s weird because in that moment, she has a perfect mental picture of this poncy, privileged arsehole, arms full of baby, reading fucking Dr Seuss. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Sally says. “Who would have thought? Sherlock Holmes has given in to—what is it that you always call it? Oh, yes—sentiment.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turns up. “Is that a yes?”

“I’ve got an appointment with Dr Moore on Wednesday.”

“I will be there.”

“You’d better be, Sherlock, because if you aren’t—“

“I will be.”

===

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra round of applause for Fiona_Fawkes who really did go above and beyond with this one! Thank you so much for your encouragement, insight, and advice keep me on the right track--you are an absolute gem! Thank you also to SilentAuror because her support and encouragement just mean the absolute world to me. Ladies, *tips hat* You rule!
> 
> And also to my wonderful readers--Thank you so much for sticking with me in this, for your wonderful comments, for your kudos, and for your bookmarks. You really do make my day with every one of them, and you make writing this story even more of a treat than I ever could have imagined. <3
> 
> And now, a little note--Though I shall do my very best to keep getting new chapters to you on Thursdays, I've learned that I really might need a little wiggle room. So, if I don't get a chapter posted until Friday or Saturday, know that I'm working very hard to get it posted ASAP, and please don't throw your tomatoes too hard (I have sensitive skin!) ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

Sally told Sherlock at her flat that appointments would be weekly from here until the baby is born. He made sure she was watching as he entered the dates into his phone’s calendar. This is the fourth one, a month gone already.

He cannot take his eyes away from the glossy printout of the scan in his hands. It’s three-dimensional; he can clearly see that his daughter has Sally’s nose, his chin, his mouth. It is remarkable.

“Sherlock, are you even listening?” Sally asks.

He is, of course, perfectly capable of simultaneously listening to the conversation _and_ looking at a photograph. He might even be able to chew a piece of gum without overtaxing himself. He bites back on the intense urge to articulate this comment and sets the photo on the counter before pointedly looking Sally in the eye, tilting his chin slightly to the side.

“Right,” says Dr Moore, laying out a sheet of paper. “Here is a list of the birthing classes offered with the hospital. It’s not necessary, of course, but I do recommend attending.

Sally takes the paper, eyeing if for a moment before lifting her eyes to Sherlock. “I’d planned on having Alice to do the coaching, but is that something…”

“Seeing as that you are the one doing the birthing, I believe that should be your decision,” Sherlock says. He thinks for a moment and adds, “I do want to be there for the birth. Would I have to take on the role of coach for that?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr Moore answers. “But, the birthing classes will help you be prepared for what to expect in the delivery room.”

Sherlock snorts. He can only imagine the agony of being locked in a room with ten other couples as they work on _bonding_ and _communicating_ , complete with a soundtrack of electronic piano overlaid with shore noise and whale song. He will do his own research. Perhaps he'll even purchase a packet of gum for the occasion. _Pass_ , he thinks, not realising that he’s actually waved a hand to punctuate that particular sentiment.

“I would sooner extract my own brain with a hook up my nose than have it rotted by hippie drivel, all the while surrounded by the happily coupled and particularly vacant,” he says out loud before he can censor himself silent. Dr Moore looks appalled, and Sally looks ready to murder him. Sherlock understands there’s nothing for it but to back-pedal a bit. “Unless you’d _rather_ that I…”

“No,” Sally says quickly. “It’s quite all right.”

Sherlock very nearly sighs in relief.

The doctor finishes up with assurances that everything is running smoothly, and they stop briefly at the checkout to confirm the date and time of the next appointment.

On the way down in the lift, Sally turns to him. “Look, er… Do you have time for a coffee?”

Sherlock agrees, and they make their way to the Costa just up the road. Sherlock orders a coffee for himself and a tea for Sally—some herbal blend that smells revoltingly fruity. He sets the cups on the small table Sally chose and takes a seat.

“Did you want to discuss something,” he asks after they’ve sat in silence for the better part of five minutes.

“Right,” Sally says. “I, erm… I had an appointment with a solicitor last week.”

Sherlock snaps his focus immediately and entirely to Sally. He knows exactly what that meeting might mean for him.

She continues. “Our… _situation_ isn’t all that uncommon, but one of the other single mums at work suggested that I go, and…”

“Custody.”

“Yes,” Sally confirms, fiddling a bit with the empty paper sugar packet between her fingers.

Sherlock hasn’t brought up Sally’s possible move to Yorkshire in conversation, not wanting to upset the precarious balance of his and Sally’s renewed alliance in all this. His time of absence gives him very little by way of influence, and he is absolutely aware that he has to tread lightly here. It is abhorrent—all this caution and walking on eggshells. However, if Sally is indeed intending to move house to the other side of the country, it very much affects him and whatever custody arrangements on which they might agree.

He takes a sip of coffee, working out exactly how to bring it up without setting Sally off. He knows the Yorkshire business is not information he has any right to know. Judging from the row regarding the trust money, he knows Sally is uncomfortable with his acquiring her personal information from a third party. Sherlock clears his throat. “I guess much of your decision will depend on your plans.”

Sally frowns, eyes narrowing. “Oh, my God. You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” Sherlock asks with raised eyebrows, sipping from his mug.

“Did Lestrade tell you that I’d made an inquiry about a possible transfer to Yorkshire?”

“No,” he says quickly (not exactly a lie—because technically, it wasn’t Lestrade). “Are you? Transferring to Yorkshire?” It comes out more clipped than he might have wanted, but he’s waited ages for this issue to come up, and he wants answers.

“What if I was?” Sally asks, hands on her cup, head tilted in what is clearly a challenge.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says honestly. Would he move his practice to be closer? Would John come with him? Would John _want_ to come with him, if it came to that? And, he realises that it is not just himself facing impending fatherhood here. He turns the coffee cup on its saucer, listening to the sound of the glass scraping together. He hates this—not being able to say what he wants; it’s stifling. He does _not_ want to live in Yorkshire. Whoever _would_? Then, he thinks of his mother, brilliant mathematician, giving up a promising career to focus on raising her children. He takes that thought and swallows it down with a bitter sip of coffee. He decides to toss this particular ball back to Sally. “Is that your plan?”

Sally looks pained. She rubs the top of her belly, a gesture she does rather frequently now. It oddly helps to remind Sherlock of the reason he’s even sitting here, the reason he’s bothering with _tact_. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve got an offer—to start after my maternity leave is done. I’d be going in as a Detective Inspector.”

Sherlock feels every thought empty out of his head. That is a solid offer, almost too good to pass up. He takes another sip of coffee. He looks to her, saying nothing.

Sally clears her throat softly and looks away—a bit uncomfortable. “But, my whole life is here. London is my home, always has been. Hard to think about leaving.”

Sherlock hums. He could not agree more. He remains silent.

She shakes her head, looks down into her tea as if it holds all the answers. “If I were to stay here—I don’t know.”

“Sally,” Sherlock says, leaning forward a bit. “I will be here, involved.”

“Sherlock,” she says, sounding tired. “Turning up at a weekly doctor’s appointment is… Well, it’s an hour and a bit out of your day, isn’t it? Doing this—being a parent. It’s nonstop—twenty-four hours, and in Yorkshire, I’d have my sister, and she’s got loads of connections with other mums, and the career opportunity is hard to pass up. If I were to stay—I would have to know for certain, for absolute certain, that you’re—”

Sherlock takes a second to absolutely loathe himself for his cowardice, for all it’s costing him now. He takes a breath. “I will be.” Sherlock says, lowering his chin in a slow nod. He feels his face twitch. “And if you were to decide to move house, I suppose I would have to speak with John and discuss what that would mean for us. I couldn’t give you a definite answer about this right now.”

“Wait,” Sally says sharply. “ _Watson_? So you two _are_ …”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obvious.”

It breaks the ice enough for Sally to laugh lightly. “I guess it is,” she says. “Hopkins owes me twenty quid.”

Sherlock laughs then, too, before he says in all seriousness, “I want half.”

“Of the twenty?” Sally asks.

“Custody.” And, even as he says it, he knows how much he means it. He will not accept less.

“Right.”

“Of course, I understand that with a newborn, it will be difficult, and I am absolutely willing to do what is best for our daughter. But yes, I want half. I will be available to you, to _her_ , at any time, but solicitors do like their official words and numbers and signing on the dotted line. If your decision is to transfer, then—I still want half.”

Sally sighs deeply. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay. Perhaps we should meet with the solicitor together.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve booked the appointment.”

That settled, they sip at their mugs, discussing the erratic weather until Sherlock thinks he might literally explode. It is a relief when the mugs are finally empty, but when they get to the street they both begin to walk in the same direction. Sally, in a minor stroke of good fortune, waves him off at a Tube station as Sherlock continues on the way back to Baker Street in the warm May sunlight.

====

When John gets home from his shift at the surgery, Sherlock is in his armchair with his legs crossed, fingers steepled at his chin. He must have been sitting for some time because the room is dim in the early evening, the sunlight coming through the window slanted at an angle that only makes for sharp beams and shadow. John switches on the lamp and crosses the room to touch Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Hello,” he says as Sherlock’s eyes open.

The right corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upwards. “Sorry. Thinking.” He grabs John’s wrist and slides his hand into John’s.

John runs his thumb over the back of it. “I see that. New case?”

“No,” Sherlock says.

“Okay,” John says, and Sherlock tugs on his hand a little to guide him toward his chair. John sits, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze before letting it drop. “Everything all right?”

Sherlock takes a breath. “Sally and I had a coffee after our appointment today. She brought up Yorkshire.”

John nods. He and Sherlock had discussed it briefly while his parents were visiting. At the time, John suggested that Sherlock simply talk it out with Sally. But, Sherlock had been so closed off with his thoughts on the pregnancy, reluctant to say anything even to John. Even as he started joining life again, taking on real cases with Lestrade, meeting Sally for appointments—he still seemed only half-present, like he was simply going through the motions. John knows that Sherlock had been (is even now) protecting himself from the possibility of this separation. Sherlock is loathe, at the very best of times, to relinquish control or respect personal boundaries; the fact that he’s been trying so hard to give Sally space and letting _her_ make the rules tells John exactly how important fatherhood has become to him. John gives Sherlock the best open smile he can muster, hoping to make whatever comes next a bit easier.

“She said that she’s not entirely sure she even wants to leave London, but the move—is a good opportunity for her. She also brought up custody arrangements. I told her that I want half—officially.”

“That makes sense,” John says, secretly pleased that Sherlock is getting back to a place with Sally that he will assert what he wants. “Was she okay with that?”

“Yes, actually. But—she did ask what part I would want in all of this if she did move house.”

John leans forward a bit. “And?”

“I told her that I wanted to speak with you about…” Sherlock cuts himself off, oddly flustered in a way John hasn’t seen since December. “Well, about what we would do if she _were_ to transfer? Would we move too? Would you—want that? To go with me? Because I can’t see joint custody working well for anyone if I’m living in London.”

John huffs out a small laugh, more breath than sound. He leans forward to lay his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Of course,” he says, squeezing a little. “Of course I would want to stay with you. I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’d get up to in Yorkshire, but—”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up in surprise. John is amazed that even after all this time, he would have doubts about this. “Sherlock,” he says, reaching over to pull Sherlock to stand with him. John slides his hands up to rest on either side of his neck as Sherlock’s settle instantly at his waist. “Hear me, now. I will _always_ want to be wherever you are.” And, it’s true. He knows all too well what London, what this _life,_ looks like without Sherlock in it. His life, _any_ part of it worth anything, is the life he’s built with Sherlock.

When Sherlock kisses him, John kisses back, letting the press of lips and tangled breath be the words of relief and gratitude and belonging that he can never quite seem to articulate. He _means_ this, and Sherlock is speaking just as clearly. The kiss is both the promise and the seal.

“What are we going to do about dinner, then?” John asks when they part because what else is there to say? He’s still got his hands on the back of Sherlock’s neck, feels Sherlock’s thumbs moving idly back and forth against his abdomen until they begin a rapid tapping instead.

“Sushi.”

====

Sherlock wakes with a start—his phone is ringing. He hears John groan from the other side of the bed, feels the slow slide of a hand down his back as he reaches for the nightstand.

“Hello,” he answers, voice rough with sleep.

“Jesus Christ,” John says, voice muffled from scrubbing his face with his hands. Sherlock rests a hand on his thigh. “What time is it?” It is two in the morning.

Lestrade’s voice is on the other end. “Sorry to wake you,” he says. “But you remember that case you turned down with the murdered uni student? Well—another body’s turned up. Will you come?”

Sherlock clears the sleep from his throat. “Where?” he asks, sitting up.

He listens as Lestrade gives the address.

“Give us half an hour,” he says. Lestrade rings off.

“Case?” John asks, sitting. His hair is sticking up in wild spikes all over the place and he has a crease running down the centre of his cheek from the pillow.

Sherlock nods. “The uni student serial killer.” He smiles wide, does not succeed in stifling a giddy burst of laughter. “I’ve waited ages for this one to turn up again!”

With a sigh, John swings his legs off the side of the bed. “The game is on,” he says with some resignation, but he’s already pulling his tee shirt over his head and moving toward the wardrobe. Sherlock watches the lines of his back, muscles shifting as he reaches for a shirt and jumper, bends for a pair of jeans. John’s only grumpy because he needs a coffee. Sherlock nearly leaps to the kitchen to switch on the kettle.

Half an hour later, they are let under the yellow tape at the scene. Lestrade comes to meet them immediately, Sally just behind him. She’s holding the small of her back with one hand, and Sherlock notes the deep bags under her eyes.

“Wait—what is she doing here?” Sherlock asks sharply, turning on Lestrade. “You called in a woman who is nearly eight months pregnant to a crime scene at two o’clock in the morning?”

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock,” he starts.

Sally speaks up. “This is my case! I’ve been on from the start,” she says. “Course he called me in. I’d have kicked him directly in the arse if he didn’t.” She crosses her arms at her chest. “Nice to see you two finally decided to grace us with your presence on this one.”

Lestrade smiles a bit. “Right,” he says. “This way.” He leads them around to a tarp that’s been set up to protect the scene from the rain that had begun falling steadily after sundown. “Our lot is nearly done processing the scene now. I’ve held off clearing anything until you two had a look. Victim matches the description of Carrie Walthrop, reported missing two days ago. Called in just after one this morning by a taxi driver that noticed her as he was driving past.”

Sherlock begins examining the body as he listens to Lestrade list the facts of the case—this is the fourth dead student to turn up since February, all female. She’d been missing three days before turning up tonight. Sherlock notes that she’s clearly only been dead for a matter of hours, so the killer must have kept her somewhere. Her throat is slit in the same manner of the other victims, body bled out before being brought here. Not a speck of blood on the clothes (why bother re-dressing them?), body posed garishly—head pulled back to expose the wound, arms and legs spread-eagle. If her clothes indeed don’t belong to her, they aren’t all that uncommon for a girl of her age: jacket, jeans, tee-shirt.

“Were the other victims blonde as well?” Sherlock asks, peering down to look at the wound at her carotid artery more closely. It was done with a very sharp blade—razor or scalpel of some sort.

Lestrade confirms that yes—all victims have been blonde, similar height and weight.

“John, tell me what you see.” John crouches down beside him. He steadies himself with a hand on Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock’s attention is momentarily pulled entirely away from the dead body in front of him—solely focused on the touch. John withdraws it as he begins to work, but this is more physical than John has ever been in front of people they work with. Sherlock turns to look at him, but John is already leaning in to have a look at the wound, apparently unaware that he’s done anything out of the ordinary.

“Got your lens?” he asks, holding out his hand.

Sherlock nods and retrieves it from his pocket, handing it to John. He feels the warmth of fingers that brush against his own as he takes it. Again, the touch is there and gone in a heartbeat, but it is automatic and familiar, as comfortable and warm as a mug of tea pressed into the palm of his hand when he hadn’t even realised he’d wanted one.

“Ta,” John says, sliding the lens open to look at the wound again. Sherlock hears him exhale through his nose as he shuffles a bit to the side and leans in closer. “Well, whoever did this knows his anatomy. It’s nearly surgical and very neat.”

John is right; it is a _very_ clean cut. “What were the tox-screens like on the other victims?” Sherlock asks, standing and turning round to see whomever is working forensics. “They must have been drugged, kept sedated as they were held. Cuts this neat would only be possible under sedation—people so rarely allow their throats to be cut without putting up some sort of fight.”

Of course it’s Anderson. He makes eye-contact very briefly, eyes flashing in something like anger, but he visibly steels himself, shaking his head and clearing his throat. His eyes fall to the chart in his hands as he speaks. “Yeah. Enough ketamine to drop a horse. In all of them. I’d imagine hers will turn up the same. We should know in a few hours.”

Sherlock turns back to the body. He hums softly, tapping a finger against his chin. He needs more data.

“Sherlock,” John says, calling his attention back. John has carefully lifted the cuff of the jacket to get a closer look at the victim’s wrists. He’s poking at them lightly with a gloved finger, rubbing it against his thumb like a test. “Look at this. She’s got marks here, but look—it’s sticky. Tape adhesive?”

Sherlock crouches down again, bending his head to get a better angle. Indeed, there are ligature marks—faint, though. It confirms that the victim struggled very little. He looks at the skin beneath her eyes and at her tongue—beginning signs of dehydration as well.

“So, he keeps them bound and sedated, but where?” Sherlock asks no one in particular. He takes a breath and turns immediately Lestrade. “I’ll need to see the other case files.” He needs to work out the pattern, find the mistake that will get him to the killer—he can’t do that with the limited data on hand.

“Yeah, all right,” Lestrade responds. “But you’ll have to come by the Yard to get ‘em yourself.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins to type into it. “The copies should be ready for you in the morning.”

“It is morning,” Sherlock says.

“Later then—hopefully before lunch. For now, we need to get the body over to Molly for a positive I.D.” He makes a hand motion like a circle, and a couple of techs begin lifting the body onto a stretcher. Anderson fits a sheet over her, and they load her into the van.

Lestrade sighs, turning to Sally. “You go home for now—we can go together to the Walthrop house in a few hours, have the parents come in to confirm.”

Sally nods, face grave. She rubs a hand over her belly for a moment, running it in slow circles. Then, her face changes—she’s nearly smiling.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“She’s awake,” Sally says. “Kicking.”

Sherlock doesn’t have any idea what his face does then, but something makes Sally come closer to him and grab his wrist. She looks him in the eye and he nods. She places his hand on the side of her belly. For a moment, it’s all rather odd—Sally’s swollen belly doesn’t feel exactly as he might have imagined—it does not yield under his fingers the way fat does, but it’s not as solid as skin over muscle either. There is no movement. He begins to withdraw his hand, but Sally holds it in place.

“Just—give her a second,” Sally says with uncharacteristic patience in her tone. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her.

Then, he feels it—it’s so clear. Just at the heel of his palm, something pushes against it, moves from one side to the other. It is beyond strange; it is beyond wonderful. He can only imagine what it must feel like from Sally’s end. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“No,” She says. “Not really. I’m getting used to it. She’s a lot more active now, and she’s getting so big that I can feel it when she so much as twitches a little hand or something. She got hiccoughs the other day—that was bloody _weird_.” There is so much about pregnancy that Sherlock has read and learned, and most of the time he is very, very glad that he does not have to endure it himself; it seems wholly unpleasant. But for this moment he realises that Sally already knows their child in a way he never will, knows the feel of her moving around inside her body, has experienced the infancy her moods, her quirks—her _personality_. Fascinating. Sherlock can admit to the smallest amount of jealousy.

The movement under Sally’s belly shifts down the side a bit, and Sherlock follows it for a moment, switching to feel it beneath his fingers instead of his palm. Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away—he can’t stand like this forever. “Remarkable,” is all he can say.

Sally looks down at her stomach and smiles again. “She really is.”

John comes over then. “All right, Sally?”

“Yeah,” she says. “All right.”

John turns to Sherlock, clearly exhausted. “Want to get back home for a bit? I need to get some sleep. I’m not on with the surgery today, so I can go with you to get the files later. I just called for a taxi to meet us at the main road.”

“I always forget that you do that,” Sally says to John. “The proper doctoring thing.”

John’s smile is friendly, if not entirely warm. “I do, yeah.”

Sally nods her head awkwardly, clearly out of things to say.

“Good bye, Sally,” Sherlock says, laying a hand on John’s shoulder. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Bye,” Sally says.

John’s hand settles at the small of his back for a moment as they turn to go. Even after he drops it, he lets their hands brush together as they walk together to catch their taxi home.

====

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever and always, there are simply _not enough ways or words_ to say thank you to Fiona_Fawkes for betaing and being both my harshest critic and loudest cheerleader. Fi--You make this story better. You freaking rule!
> 
> Thanks also to SilentAuror for her constant support and also for one of the funniest games of "would you rather" while helping me tap into Sherlock's bitch!voice. 
> 
> Thanks also to you, lovely readers! Your support, comments, and kudos mean more to me than I could ever adequately express.
> 
> A note: Sorry (sorry again) for the delay in getting this chapter to you. As I've said before, I've been caught up with myself for a while now, and I'm rounding the corner to the end of this story. One I started working with my outline as originally planned, I realized that it just wasn't going to work the way I really wanted it to. I needed to take a little time to have a think and do some shuffling and re-arranging, as well as some flat out deleting and adding. I hope what's coming will be worth the wait. That said--I will do my best to post weekly, but as I move forward, I want to give you the best story I can, and that might mean the process could take a bit longer than a week. I will try my best to not stretch it quite this long again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: discussion of suicide

John wakes to the sound of his text message alert. He opens his eyes carefully, the mid-May sunlight very bright coming through the window. He’d been asleep for much longer than he’d expected. Sherlock’s absence next to him tells John that while he might have convinced his mad partner to go to bed with him, the work hadn’t let him stay long.

The phone screen has already gone dark by the time John’s wits have recovered from drowsiness. He presses the button that pulls up the home screen. The message is there:

_At Scotland Yard. Need data_

_on all deaths fitting profile,_

_not just murders. -SH_

John wonders how long Sherlock had been up and back to scrutinising the grisly collage above their sofa, nearly the entirety of the wall covered in crime scene photos, maps, notes, and other sundry pieces of data that Sherlock found relevant. He’d got the files on the other victims from Lestrade early yesterday, and the rest of the day was spent on foot, speaking with family and friends in various stages of grief. It all turned out to be a lot of leg work and little payoff, and if he came back to the flat exhausted, Sherlock was one great raw nerve.

John had busied himself as Sherlock worked, doing the laundry and the dusting just to keep his hands busy while Sherlock stared and stared at the data. At somewhere near half-two in the morning, John found that he was actually seeing double and realised that while it had been too long a day for him, Sherlock hadn’t seen any sleep since being awoken by Lestrade in the wee hours a couple of nights ago. The last time either one of them had had any real sleep was three days ago.

John found Sherlock muttering at the wall, scribbling a note on the map there. Then, he growled and threw his pen across the room.

“Sherlock,” John said, coming up behind him. When John put a hand on his shoulder, Sherlock jumped as if startled. “Hey, easy there.” John ran a hand through his curls, which had already started to frizz, sticking out in odd puffs from hours of Sherlock tugging on it himself.

Sherlock turned to look at him then, and John could see that the whites of his eyes were shot through with streaks of red, the circles underneath dark nearly to the colour of bruises. Jesus. “There is no _link_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding equal parts frustrated and defeated. “How has he not made even one mistake? Serial killers always make a mistake.”

John had taken Sherlock’s hand, running a thumb over the back, almost like soothing an upset child. “Look,” he said. “You will figure this out. But not on what, two hours sleep in three days? Your brain needs rest. Let’s go to bed.”

“I’m _working_ , John,” Sherlock snapped, snatching his hand away from John’s.

“I know you are,” John said, unflinching. “And the work will be here in the morning. Come to bed.”

Sherlock looked to the wall, and then back to John, clearly debating. In the end, he’d sighed and relented, following as John led the way to the bedroom. They’d gone through their bedtime routine quickly and without much fuss, and it was only moments after John climbed into bed that Sherlock had curled up against him, asleep nearly instantly.

Now, John slides the bar across the bottom of his mobile and presses the messaging icon to reply. He hasn’t even typed in his first word before the phone _shoops_ with another message from Sherlock. It’s an address in Camden. _Meet there in an hour –SH_.

Sherlock is already waiting for him when he arrives. “There were two deaths that fit the profile in the year preceding the first victim on record,” he starts. “One of them was a car accident and is therefore irrelevant. But this is the flat of Tom Perry, long time boyfriend of Grace Lindsey who committed suicide nearly six months ago. At the time, they shared a flat four streets from here.”

“Why do you think this one is related?” John asks.

“It might not be, but it’s all I’ve got right now. Perry found her in the bathtub, exsanguinated—razor blade to the wrists.”

John feels his lips press together as he nods grimly. Sherlock presses the buzzer at the door. After a few second’s wait, it’s answered.

“Yeah?” the voice that comes through sounds tinny and far away.

“Yeah… hi,” Sherlock says, bobbing on his feet a bit, affecting affability. John rolls his eyes. “I’m looking for Tom Perry. Is he in?”

“Uh, yeah. Come on up,” the voice answers. There is a quiet pause, and then the sharp _click_ of the lock on the front door releasing. Sherlock takes the stairs swiftly, and John has to take two at a time to keep up. Sherlock knocks again when they reach the door of the flat.

It is answered by a kid in his early twenties, slight and shaggy-haired. He was simply dressed in jeans and a faded red tee shirt.

“Holy shit,” the guy says as he looks to Sherlock in earnest. “You’re Sherlock Holmes! That detective. You must be John Watson—I read your blog!”

Sherlock seems startled enough to shake his head a bit, but it’s only for a moment. John watches as he works his face into something resembling a friendly smile. “Yes,” Sherlock says. “Are you Tom Perry?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Perry opens the door wide, and Sherlock and John step through. The flat is tidier that what John would have expected for a kid of Perry’s age. There are no empty beer bottles or days-old takeaway containers. He’s clearly been studying, medical textbooks littered all around the sofa in a neat half-moon, interspersed with note cards and lecture notes.

“You studying to be a doctor?” John asks.

“Yeah. Take the exams in just about a month. Sorry for the mess.” He scoops up a couple of books and stacks them on the corner of the table. “Why are you here?”

“Can you tell us about Grace Lindsey?” Sherlock asks, face blank, all business.

“Grace?” Tom says, and his expression goes from mild interest to grief-slack in an instant. John knows that look well. He felt it on his own face every time someone asked him about Sherlock when… John clears his throat to pull himself from that line of thinking, back to the present.

“Yes,” John says, eyeing Sherlock hard enough that Sherlock backs away. “I know this will be difficult, but we’re investigating deaths similar to Grace’s, and would like to know, if you’re willing to share, a few details that could help us out with a current investigation.”

Perry takes a deep breath and sits down on his sofa. He lets out the breath and holds out his hands to the two chairs set up in the living room. Sherlock and John take a seat.

“Sorry,” Perry says. “It’s just—some days, I actually feel like I’m moving on, like I’m getting past all of it, but… Grace and I… I thought we were going to get married. And then she—killed herself.”

“I know this is hard,” John says. But before he can get out the rest of his thought, the door to the flat opens. Another bloke, about the same age, comes in carrying a bike. He’s a bit taller than Perry, his short brown hair in sweaty spikes over his head. He sets the bike down in a space against the wall by the door, and when he looks up, his expression is one of confusion.

“Everything all right?” he asks Perry, looking from him to Sherlock and John in turns.

“Er, yeah,” Perry says. “This is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson—they’re here asking a few questions about Grace’s death.”

Sherlock and John stand, and the guy offers his hand. “Grant Bowen,” he says. John shakes his hand first, then Sherlock. “What’s this about Grace, then?” Bowen asks.

“Right,” John says. “We’re consulting with Scotland Yard on deaths that were similar to Grace’s, and we’re interviewing a few people in order to help with that investigation.” John keeps his wording ambiguous, hoping to invite detail rather than scare anyone off. “We were just asking Tom about Grace. We’re trying to get a bigger picture of what happened, why she…” he lets his own voice trail off. It’s been so long since Sherlock jumped off that building, so long since he’s had the answers he wanted, _so long_ —but saying these words out loud is starting to rub uncomfortably at his own scar tissue; he hates poking at someone else’s much fresher wound.

“Thing is,” Perry says from his spot on the sofa as Bowen takes a seat next to him. “Grace and I had just had a monumental row. She’d been running around—just found out that she’d slept with some guy in her theatre group. She’d said that it was a mistake, and she cried and I cried, and I told her to pack up and leave, that I wanted her gone by the morning.” He lets out a sob, and Bowen grips him on the shoulder.

“You couldn’t have known, mate—I’ve told you this. It wasn’t your fault.” Perry is crying in earnest now, tears streaming down his cheeks. He wipes them with the heels of his hands and looks back up at John. “When I came in the next morning, I was fucking pissed because she hadn’t moved anything out at all. I shouted her name, but she didn’t answer. Then, I called her mobile and heard it ringing from the bedroom, but she wasn’t there. The bathroom door was closed.” Perry stops to take another few shuddering breaths, and Bowen squeezes his shoulder. John looks over to Sherlock who is staring blank-faced at both of them.

“Go on,” Sherlock says. After a look from John, he softens it a bit, adding, “Please.”

Perry sniffs, swipes at his face a little more, but now he’s got a streak of fresh snot running across his cheek. “Well, I called her name again and opened the bathroom door. She was in there—in the tub. God—I’m… I’m studying to be a doctor, and I know how much blood is in the human body, but… seeing _that_. It looked like the whole tub was filled with it, and she was so, so white, and her eyes were open. I still see them sometimes when I sleep—those eyes, the blood.” He drops his head into his hands and cries softly. Bowen strokes his back, looking to John and Sherlock. He stops, patting Perry twice and withdrawing his hand but keeping his entire body nearly flush with his friend’s.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John shakes his head as if to say _give the poor bloke a minute_.

And, after a while, Perry composes himself and looks up again. “Is that all you need? I really need to get back to studying.”

“How long have you been living here?” Sherlock asks.

“Since then. Well, since the night I told Grace to pack up, really. Bowie’s been my best mate for years, and he had the extra room since his flatmate decided to do a year abroad. Thought I’d be crashing here for one night, but after—I just couldn’t go back into that flat. Bowie got my things for me, and I guess Grace’s parents came for her things. But, yeah—it’s been better recently.” He reaches over and pats Bowen on the chest twice.

“Must make studying easier, since you’re both studying medicine,” Sherlock says.

Bowen looks confused, but Perry allows a small smile. “It’s weird to see that in person, you know. I’ve read almost all of Dr Watson’s blogs, and it’s hard to believe that someone can really deduce random facts about someone like that.”

“You are both clearly students, there are only medical textbooks—and loads of them. Several double copies. Easy.”

“Do you need anything else?” Bowen asks. “We really do have to meet up with a study group later tonight.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “That will be all, I believe.” Sherlock makes for the door.

“Thank you for your time,” John adds, knowing how painful this must have been. “It can’t have been easy.”

“I just hope it helps,” Perry says.

John smiles, nodding his head once as he heads out the door after Sherlock. He hopes it helps, too.

\---

Speedy’s café is nearly empty when John and Sherlock sit at a lone table near the back. It’s that quiet time of afternoon, just before people start to get off of work.

“Well,” John says, watching Sherlock dump two packets of raw sugar into his cup. “Do you think Perry’s the guy?”

Sherlock hums, running a wooden stir stick around his mug. “Possibly.” He sets the stick down in the centre of the table where a tiny pool of coffee gathers around the edges. Sherlock is quiet then for a beat. After a moment, he says, “It must be a terrible strain—to find the one person you loved most had betrayed you in nearly every way imaginable. To have found her the way he did, to have felt so helpless.”

John waits for Sherlock to catch his eye, but his eyes shift instead from intently watching the liquid in his cup to the granules of sugar that have spilt on the table. “What must it do to a person, to witness something like that?” And at that, Sherlock does look up, gaze heavy with much more that only the facts of this case.

Well, John had been thinking about it since he stood outside that flat with Sherlock, couldn’t help but identify with Perry in silent understanding. John clears his throat, at a loss for what to say—he’s unsure of what conversation they’re actually having.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says, clearing it up for him.

John feels the muscles in his face pull, but for the life of him, he couldn’t say whether it was into a smile or a frown or into something totally other. He reaches out and puts his hand around Sherlock’s wrist, has to clear his throat a bit for the emotion that’s suddenly bubbled up there. His voice is little more than a whisper when he does manage to say, “I forgave you, Sherlock,” and he makes sure to catch Sherlock’s eyes before he continues. “A very long time ago.” He lets his fingers wrap just that much tighter. “I do know what Perry might be going through, and it is—it is the worst thing… the worst thing. But—“

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock repeats. “If there is anything I could do to g—“

“No,” John says, punctuating the word with a little added pressure under his fingertips. Then, he relaxes his hold a bit, but he doesn’t let go. “It’s over. You’re here. We’re fine.”

Sherlock releases a breath, curling his hand into a fist just below John’s grip as he bows his head to the table. He stays that way for a minute. John may have forgiven him ages ago, but it would seem that Sherlock is still wrestling with forgiving himself.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock lifts his head. “Oh!” he all but gasps, and John knows the look on his face in two very different contexts. Both make him smile. “Oh!” Sherlock says again. And then, without preamble, he stands, gripping the sides of John’s face before kissing him soundly on the mouth, heedless of the public setting. It is a hard thing—all pressure—there and gone in a second. This is—new, but John finds that his toes tingle with it all the same. “You are _brilliant_ , John!” He turns from the table, abandoning his mug, still mostly full, as he bolts for the door. “Come on—I need to get to my computer!”

John has barely shut the door to the flat when Sherlock’s fingers are already flying over his keyboard. John steps up behind him at the desk, looking at the open windows that Sherlock has brought up. He’s split the screen, one side is a property search from an engine John is certain is off-limits to civilians, and the other is a map. Sherlock scans and clicks and then opens another few searches.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Sherlock just shakes his head, as if talking at all would slow him down. It probably would. So, John sits back and watches, trying and failing to process the information as fast as Sherlock is calling it up and then minimising it to bring up something else.

“There!” Sherlock says, after about five minutes. “Got you!” And, then he’s bounding for the door again, John ready and on his heels this time.

In the taxi, John finally has the chance to ask, “Where are we going? What have you worked out?”

“Not Perry, John,” Sherlock says. “It’s Bowen. Has to be. Medical background—enough for the precision cuts at any rate. And, I realised Perry’s distress at his girlfriend’s philandering and subsequent suicide _might_ just be the push a budding psychopath would need to start a murdering spree, so then, naturally, I thought of what it might take for someone like me. And it turns out, I would find myself far more murderous if someone had hurt _you_ rather than some threat or trauma that affected only myself. Did you see Bowen’s body language at the flat? He’s clearly in love with Perry. Turns out, Bowen has let a small office space, taken out since February. Why would a medical student need office space?”

“Wait,” John says. “If Bowen is the killer, then did he kill Grace, too? Get her out of the picture?”

Sherlock tilts his chin slightly to the side before answering. “I don’t know. Possible, but unlikely. Makes more sense for Bowen to continue to punish Grace for hurting Perry by killing her again and again with his own two hands.” He looks out the window for a second as the taxi slows. The beginnings of rush hour traffic.

“Did you text Lestrade to let him know what you’ve worked out?”

“Of course. He and Sally will meet us there.” Sherlock puts his hands on his knees, first two fingers tapping with restless energy.

It takes another ten minutes before the taxi drops them at the address for the office block. Most of the windows are dark, the people who work there now shoved into crowded busses and trains on the journey home. Sherlock paces up and down the length of the place before sidestepping into a narrow alley between two buildings, tugging John by the wrist as he goes. It’s darker here where the early evening sun is already at an angle sharp enough to deepen shadow, glinting too brightly where it does shine.

Sherlock’s head swivels from left to right as he eyes the back doors and delivery entrances for the offices. “The address indicates that the unit we’re looking for is a street-level space, but there’s nothing like it facing the actual street. Probably used to be storage for one of the other offices— Ah,” he says, stopping in front of a door that was once painted a shiny green but is now so chipped and dinged, John can see flecks of every past life it’s had—garish blue, yellow, orange. “No street door—privacy from prying eyes and keeps the rent at a reasonable rate. It’s a win-win for Bowen.”

Sherlock pulls his lockpick kit from his pocket. “Shouldn’t we wait for Lestrade and Donovan?” John asks. He is unsurprised when Sherlock ignores him, carrying on with breaking the lock without comment. It clicks open in moments. Sherlock pushes the door open carefully.

Something about the dark of the room beyond, darker even than the dusky alley makes John stand a little straighter, widen his stance and make his body ready for whatever may come. Sherlock ducks inside, and John follows closely behind.

“No windows,” Sherlock whispers, turning on his mobile’s torch, running the beam in a careful sweep around the room.

The sound of their breathing seems very loud, and John nearly jumps at the tell-tale sound of a refrigerator motor coming to life. He can’t help but utter a quiet, “Shit.”

The room is revealed to him in the narrow beam of light that Sherlock won’t keep bloody still. He can tell there is a bank of cupboards along a wall and a dark partition, much like what would be used to separate office cubicles, creating the illusion of a front room and a back room.

Sherlock is just in front of him, moving further inside, when suddenly the space is flooded with light.   They both jump a bit, turning toward the entrance. John really wishes he’d thought to bring his gun.

John blinks, letting out a breath as Lestrade says, “Couldn’t bloody wait five minutes.” He’s standing in the doorway with Sally just behind him.

“Traffic is _terrible_ ,” Sherlock replies. “Who knows when you’d have turned up.”

“There is a thing called a search warrant you know. The courts tend to like that sort of thing during prosecution.”

John says, “We were certain we heard someone calling out for help.” Lestrade fixes him with a hard look, and John swallows but keeps his chin held high.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees.

Lestrade just sighs, but he moves into the little room with them, Sally just behind. She nods at them.

In the light, John can see that the front of the space is furnished like a sparse office—small desk, rickety folding chair. Behind the partition, though, there is a gleaming stainless steel table that makes John’s stomach turn over.

Sherlock moves to the refrigerator and opens it. It is nearly packed with neatly stacked plastic containers with a dark red liquid inside. Sally turns away.

“Well, fuck me,” Lestrade says.

Sherlock steps back to let Lestrade see the contents, and he begins opening the cupboard doors below the long counter that runs the length of the back wall. The first reveals nothing but a yellowed plastic fork, one tine chipped off. Sherlock replaces it where he found it and moves on to the next set of doors. He pulls, but they stay shut. He pulls again.

“It’s locked,” Donovan says.

“Excellent deduction, Sally,” Sherlock says back. There is a tiny little circular lock at the top, and Sherlock has his picks out again in no time. After about a minute, the thing turns and the lock releases. Sherlock opens the door slowly at first, but then flings the door wide.

There is a girl inside, crouched in foetal position in order to properly fit in the small space. She doesn’t stir. John steps in front of him, resting two fingers at the pulse point on her neck. It’s present but slow. John lets out a breath. “Let’s get her out,” John says. “Move back.” He wraps his arms as best he can around her torso and under her legs, letting her blonde head fall against his shoulder as he pulls her out, laying her as gently as he can to the floor.

“She’s out cold—probably drugged like the others,” John says. He looks up to Lestrade. “Call an ambulance now.” But, Lestrade already has his phone to his ear, barking the address to the dispatcher on the other end. The girl’s wrists are bound with tape, just as they’d suspected of the last girl. Sherlock wordlessly hands him a pocketknife, and John slices through it instantly, peeling the tape from the girl’s skin as carefully as he can mangage.

“Have there been any new missing persons reports fitting the description?” Sherlock asks Sally.

“No,” she replies. “This must have only just happened. Oh, my God.”

“I’m going to go out to the street to meet the paramedics,” Lestrade says. Don’t want them to waste time finding the unit.” John listens to his footsteps fade as he leaves.

He lifts the lids of the girl’s eyes. Her pupils are dilated. He presses his knuckles against her sternum, and she has the appropriate pain response, which is a good enough sign that John sighs. “Good girl,” he says. “Come on. We’ve got you.” She’s still unconscious, so really all John can do while they wait for the paramedics is to keep close and make sure that he’s there to help if she begins vomiting or seizing.

Sherlock gives him a meaningful look, a slow tilt of his chin to his chest, acknowledging without words that he trusts John to care for the girl. Then, he moves away to continue his investigation. Sally turns around in the space, both hands at the small of her back.

Sherlock opens the next to last cabinet to find it as empty as the first. But, his hand is barely on the last one before it bursts outward in an instant.

Bowen springs out like a cat who’d been waiting in a bush, knocking Sherlock at the knees and sending him to the ground. John sees the flash of something gleaming in his right hand. Sherlock is halfway back up again when Sally turns round to block Bowen’s way out. Bowen reacts savagely, hitting her hard, directly in the belly, the flash of the thing in his hand disappears into her side. She grunts with the effort of staying upright, but both of her hands go instantly to protect her stomach.

Sherlock has risen to his knees, and John feels like every move he makes is in slow motion as he tries to reach them. Neither one of them is fast enough. John can only watch as Bowen punches Sally hard in the face, sending her spinning. She is knocked off her feet, and then there is a sickening _clang_ ; John’s stomach drops as she hits the side of her head hard on the corner of the metal table and then falls to the ground.

Sherlock gasps, “No!” and then he is screaming, “No!” Bowen barely makes it past the partition in his attempt to flee before Sherlock has him by the back of the collar. He yanks hard. Bowen swings out, twisting around.

John is moving toward Sally, but all he can see is the glinting blade in Bowen’s hand. “Sherlock!” he shouts. Without releasing him, Sherlock shifts his torso back to avoid the swing of the blade, using the opportunity to knock the thing from Bowen’s hand once and for all. Then, Sherlock takes a swing himself, landing a punch soundly to Bowen’s jaw. Bowen staggers, and Sherlock takes his advantage even further, sweeping his legs out from under him with a well-timed kick, and Bowen goes down. Sherlock has a knee to his back almost instantly, pinning Bowen’s arms behind him with one hand as the other grabs a fistful of hair and slams his face into the floor.

John moves over to Sally the moment he is able, patting her cheek. “Sally,” he says. “Sally, look at me.” She doesn’t. Shit.

“Is she all right?” Sherlock asks. Bowen is struggling a little underneath his knee. “Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock growls down at him. Bowen does, choking on a groan as that knee grinds down even harder into his back.

She has a wound on the side of her abdomen. John lifts her shirt to better see what he’s dealing with. It looks like the blade missed anything major, but it is bleeding rather badly. John does his best to stop the flow with his hand while checking the wound to the side of her head, bump already visible just above her temple.

John starts when he feels something soft hit him in the face. Sherlock’s shirt. He looks up to see that Sherlock is naked to the waist, his phone against his ear. “Use that,” he says. Then, into the phone, “Tell the paramedics to make room for one more. Sally’s been assaulted. Stabbed, hit, possible head wound. She’s not responding. I’ve apprehended Bowen.” His voice is even, clipped, but John hears the break on the end.

“Sherlock,” he says, and he has no clue what words come next. So, he does his best to meet his eye. Sherlock’s chest is heaving, and his face has gone very pale.

Sally is breathing evenly but still unconscious. All he can do is try to stop the bleeding, watching helplessly as Sherlock’s white button-down seeps through with dark red. It seems to be slowing, but he fears that might just be his own wishful thinking. He only hopes the paramedics aren’t far off. If the traffic getting to the place was a mess, it must be bloody awful by now.

It’s a quiet and intense few minutes as they wait. After about five minutes, Sally’s eyes flutter open. John is right there meeting her when they do. She sucks in a pained breath, blinking.

“Sally,” John says. She moves her head with some effort toward him. “Sally, it’s John.”

“Watson?” she manages. Then her whole body shudders as she comes even more back to herself. “Son of a bitch,” she says, words slurring a little. “The baby! Oh, Jesus!” she hisses out, clearly beginning to panic.

John uses his cleaner hand to stroke her cheek, trying to get her to focus on his face. “Sally. Sally.”   Once she’s calmed a bit, eyes focused on his, he adds, “You’ve been unconscious for a few minutes. Glad to have you back.” He keeps his voice steady. “You’ve a stab wound to your abdomen and a nasty bump on your head. Try not to move. The paramedics are on their way. You need to stay calm, and you need to stay awake. Can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?”

She looks down to where John is pressing Sherlock’s shirt to her middle. “David Cameron.” Then, “Is that Sherlock’s shirt?” she asks, lifting her head toward where Sherlock is still holding Bowen. He would look ridiculous, shirtless and gangly, but the dark look on his face is chilling, every muscle tensed, defined.

“Sally,” Sherlock says, breathy with relief. “You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.” His words sound desperate, and as he speaks, his face changes from terrifying in its fury to positively green; he looks like he’s about to sick up all over Bowen. This is not going to help.

“Sherlock,” John says, lifting his eyes again to meet Sherlock’s. He’s never seen him so frightened. “The paramedics will be here soon. You just need to keep that bastard down until Lestrade gets back.” Sherlock responds by steeling his features, grinding his knee into Bowen’s back. Bowen yowls at the pressure.

“Back pocket,” Sally says through gritted teeth.

“What?” John asks.

“Cuffs. Back pocket.”

“Right,” John says. He wriggles his hand under Sally’s backside and gets the handcuffs. He tosses them to Sherlock, who catches them mid-air. He fastens them immediately around Bowen’s wrists, forcefully yanking him to his feet, slamming him into a wall for good measure. Bowen begins to protest, but Sherlock grabs him by the back of the hair. John can’t hear what Sherlock growls into his ear, but he can imagine it’s nothing good. Bowen goes still and quiet.

The sound of an ambulance siren begins to creep into the space, and John assures Sally that help is on the way. She nods, but then her face contorts into a mask of pain. She lets out a low moan.

“Sally?” John says. Sherlock turns his head.

“I think,” she says, breathing hard. “I’m going into labour. My water just broke.” And, sure enough, John sees liquid darkening Sally’s trousers, pooling under her backside.

“Just hold on,” he says. “Help is on the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Fiona_Fawkes for the awesome and invaluable beta-ing (you rule, lady!) and to SilentAuror for being a wonderful encourager!
> 
> Thank you so much to my readers--your comments and kudos make this whole process more of a joy than I could hope for!


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock threw his very first punch when he was thirteen years old. He’d been cornered by a gang of bullies that had been taunting him mercilessly for weeks. The biggest of the lot had got his rucksack off him on the footpath home, then kicked him behind his knees, laughing boisterously as he fell. Sherlock had landed hard on the pavement, can still remember the taste of blood on his tongue, the feel of grit in his teeth. His vision had nearly blacked out with a primal sort of rage, and he’d sprung from the ground and spun, fist ready. It landed on the boy’s jaw with the satisfying sound of skin-on-skin, the blossoming of pain at his knuckles, sharp and clean. That is when the other two jumped in. Sherlock had twisted and squirmed and fought back, but when they left him, he’d gone home with a bloody lip and two black eyes.

His father had given him a packet of frozen peas for the swelling, hand gentle but firm on Sherlock’s shoulder as he helped him hold it into place. His mother had fussed, and Sherlock had begged her not to call the other boys’ parents. She’d relented only after his dad had given her a weighted glance, an entire conversation had without words. The next week, Sherlock followed his father into the martial arts studio and waited quietly as he’d signed him up for lessons.

His lessons had served him well over the years—with school bullies, kite-high junkies, petty thieves, _and_ psychopathic criminal masterminds. The training allowed his body to do what his mind already could: to see the whole picture—to predict, to react, to strike. Words and cleverness were well and good, but there were times when a well-landed blow to the solar plexus or a swift jab to the kidney was the only way forward. He was nearly always ready.

Not this time, though. Sherlock didn’t even see what sent him to the ground before Bowen had already burst from the cupboard. The doors got him in the exact right spot to nearly hyper-extend his knees, and when he goes down, his body is at entirely the wrong angle to rebound quickly. He feels as though he is scrambling through quicksand, forcing his joints and muscles to move where he wants them to go. When the knife blade sinks into Sally’s side, Sherlock feels the breath leave his lungs. He has to move faster.

He is almost there, but he still isn’t quick enough—the next blow sends Sally’s head crashing into the table, and in that moment, any formal training Sherlock had known is suffocated by the same primal urge to strike that got him off the pavement that day when he was thirteen. His hands reach blindly; his fingers find fabric, and they tighten. He ignores the dull throbbing in his left knee as his shoulders and back and core do the work for him, yanking Bowen nearly off his feet by his shirt collar. Sherlock hears John’s warning in time to avoid the cut of the blade, and now he has very little to think about. His body does the work for him. Disarm. Subdue. _Hurt_.

Bowen is under Sherlock’s knee, and Sherlock’s hands are full of clammy skin and dark hair. He is muttering psychotic gibberish under his breath, but Sherlock can’t be bothered to listen. “Is she all right?” Sherlock asks John. The answer is obvious. Sally isn’t moving, and Sherlock can’t see well from where he is. He can’t move, can’t get closer, can only watch as John works. Bowen won’t stop his incessant prattling, and he _did this_.  

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock growls through gritted teeth, and he knows that with _this_ much more pressure, he’s likely to crack one of Bowen’s ribs. He applies it.

There is blood. A lot of blood, and he knows that John needs to staunch the bleeding quickly if there’s to be any chance of Sally and the baby surviving. Sherlock releases Bowen’s head to undo his shirt buttons as quickly as he is able. He tosses the thing to John and phones Lestrade to alert the paramedics. He is fighting panic. Every passing second that Sally stays still and quiet, that the bloodstain on his shirt grows larger, is an eternity. There are no words in this or any other language for Sherlock to express the bone-deep worry that is boring into the pit of his stomach, scraping against the back of his throat, near to making him sick. His daughter is dying. His daughter is _dying_.

Sherlock’s mind palace is unhelpful, _useless_ , has been washed to sea. There is no answer, no brilliant epiphany that can solve this. There is only a lonely raft and a raging tempest—so very like the one he remembers from all those months ago, sat in a chair at Speedy’s, Sally’s eyes dark and determined even as she fidgeted with her mug of chamomile tea.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice calls to him over the storm, bringing him back to the present. His eyes hold Sherlock like an embrace. It is not the same as reassurance, but Sherlock knows it is the best he can do right now, and so he does what he can to get his breathing under control.

\---

There isn’t room for him in the ambulance, and John has to manhandle him into the back of Lestrade’s car. Sherlock is dimly aware of John’s hand on his knee, of the repetitive wail of the siren, of the now-and-again static of the radio, but his focus is on the tail lights in front of them. He keeps going over the maths—time and blood loss and statistics on trauma-induced labour ( _why_ hadn’t he done more research on this?).

Sherlock is out of the car before Lestrade even brings it to a full stop. He runs to the ambulance bay, desperate for information. He is brushed aside as they lift the stretcher from the back and extend the wheels. Sally’s face is pale, expressionless; she is clearly unconscious again. One of her hands falls limply outward as the wheels hit the ground. It dangles loosely until a paramedic places it back at her side.

Sherlock’s head throbs in time with the syncopation of flashing lights from too many vehicles—blue, white, red, yellow. Lab-coated doctors rush out to meet them. He catches snatches of information: Bleeding stabalised. Possible rupture of membranes. They won’t answer his questions, and John is trying to explain, but Sherlock can’t process it. He can’t _think_.

In the A&E waiting area, there is vomit on the floor stinking up the entire room. Crying children, broken ankles and arms, worried parents and partners—misery and pain in astonishing variety. Sherlock hears the page for an OB consult in A&E, _STAT_. He isn’t sure whether that is reassuring or deeply discomforting; all this emotion, this _feeling_ —it is melting together so that Sherlock can’t tell one thing from the other. Lestrade is on the phone, asking for Sally’s emergency contact information which he relays to the woman behind the desk. Sherlock hears his own name. He hears the word father.

Someone (A doctor? A nurse?) comes to meet them in the A&E waiting room. John nods beside him, commenting, asking questions, speaking _calmly_ of emergency c-sections and potential complications. Sherlock demands to know where Sally is. He screams. He belittles. He deduces an affair. He tries to stalk past them through the double doors behind. John’s hands hold tight to his shoulders, keep his feet on the ground. He was supposed to _be there_ for the birth—even if. _Even if_ … They are ushered down two long corridors, led into the surgical waiting area. It is much quieter here, vomit free. There is nothing he can _do_.

So, he waits.

Five minutes. There are seven other people in this waiting room. They all stare at him as he stalks in, but most quickly go back to their books or their phones or whatever it was they were doing before. The television flickers with The Food Network on mute, closed-captioning subtitles running jerkily along the bottom. In the distance, phones ring out of sync from varying directions. Someone down the corridor laughs. The man in the green trousers sneezes. The nubby fabric of the chair itches the small of his back, so he leans forward away from it. Sherlock shivers, realising that he is still shirtless.

John presses a polystyrene cup of tea into his hands. John’s shirt has Sally’s blood on it, but he’s washed his hands clean. Sherlock sets the cup on top of months-old magazines on the side table and tugs at his hair with his elbows on his knees. John says nothing, just sits next to him. Lestrade brings him a tee shirt. It is two sizes too large and smells of stale sweat and dried mud. Sherlock puts it on.

Ten minutes. Sherlock takes a sip of his tea, now lukewarm.

Eleven minutes. He hurls the tea against the wall, something between a cry and a groan ripping itself unbidden from the deepest part of his gut. It spatters spectacularly, dripping off the frame of an ugly impressionistic painting of a man in a rowboat. The tea sends dark streaks down the beige wall, pools on the linoleum, seeps past the seams.

A woman with a hospital badge comes out warn him to calm down or she’ll have the big, scary orderly escort him from the premises. He reads her drug habit in the colouring around her eyes, in the twitch of her fingers. The deduction is on the tip of his tongue, but he finds that he can’t be bothered. He nods at her. She leaves.

“Sherlock,” John says, voice even if resigned, and guides him to a chair. His legs jump. His fingers itch.   He stands again and paces. Everything in his mind is thunder, white-capped swells of rage and futility.

Eighteen minutes. A different nurse comes through the door. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes. Is everything all right? How is she—how are they?”

“Miss Donovan is still in surgery. She’s likely—”

“The baby?” Sherlock asks, cutting her off, voice breaking, caught in the gale at the back of his throat.

“She is here and in good health.” she says, smiling, and Sherlock feels his knees begin to buckle. He hadn’t realised that John was next to him until he feels the press of his familiar hand against his back. Sherlock turns to him at once, burying his face in the crook of John’s shoulder as he wraps his arms all the way around. After a moment, Sherlock feels the pressure of John’s hands just below his shoulders as John pushes him away a bit. Why is John pushing him away?

“Can he see her?”

Oh. Oh!

“She’s in the NICU now. They’ll have to monitor her temperature and breathing until they’re certain she’s stable.” The nurse’s eyes linger on the grubby tee shirt that is hanging like an ill-fitting nightdress halfway to Sherlock’s knees over his trousers, and then she smiles. I’ll get you some clean scrubs and you can come on back. Follow me, Dad.”

Sherlock looks to John who gives him a smile that is wide and full and touches every part of his eyes, every line of his face. Sherlock feels his own face return it before the rest of the situation returns to him.

“And Sally?” he asks, mind finally clearing a bit. “You said she was still critical.”

Her face is professionally stoic, neither grim nor bright. “They’ve stabilised the stab wound, but the head injury is what we’re worried about at the minute. We’ll know more once they’ve moved her to recovery.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says. She motions for him to follow her, and he looks to John. “Can Dr Watson come with me?”

“I’m afraid not. Only parents for now.”

John gives him a small smile, and Sherlock reaches out to touch him. He needs to be reminded that this is all real. The skin at John’s neck is warm where Sherlock brushes his fingers, thumb just under his jaw. John leans in, and Sherlock bends to kiss him on the forehead. He knows he owes his daughter’s life, at least in part, to John—to his _being there_ , to his _being John_ when it counted. He is thinking the words _I love you_ so loudly, he’s not entirely sure he didn’t actually whisper them into John’s ear. He hopes that he did.

“Me too,” John tells him when they part. “I’ll see you soon.” He gives Sherlock’s arm a squeeze, and Sherlock nods, turning to follow the nurse.

He follows her through the door and down several long corridors. They pass the nursery, a bank of windows that would be bright and airy in the daylight, doors with cheery balloons and banners, storks heralding good news from their beaks: _It’s a Girl!_

They walk past it all, to another door with a sign that reads _Neonatal Intensive Care_. She scans the badge that she pulls from a retractable cord at her lapel, and the lock clicks open, letting them through. It is much warmer on this side of the door, and it is quiet save for the distant sounds of hushed voices. Somewhere, a baby cries, and he wonders if it is his daughter.

“This way,” the nurse says, leading him to a room off the main corridor. She hands him a set of blue hospital scrubs and instructs him to put them on and wash his hands. There is a small en-suite bathroom off to the left. He changes into the scrubs. The nurse instructs him on how to scrub in (which he'll do at the washing station upon entering the unit from here on). She watches on as he washes his hands and then, noticing the stick of dried sweat, his also does his arms to his elbows, his neck, and his face. “Angie will be with you in a minute.”

Sherlock nods. “Thank you.” She gives him a small smile and goes. He realises he never even asked her name. It’s the sort of thing John would have remembered to do.

He looks around. It is a small space and every bit as warm as the rest of the ward. One wall is covered in nozzles and hook-ups, a few monitor screens, dark now in disuse. The walls are done in a shade of lavender that is probably intended to be soothing. On one, there is a mounted television and a whiteboard that tells him that _Angie_ (written in her own hand, green dry-erase ink, smiley face) is the charge nurse on shift until seven o’clock tomorrow morning. The others have framed paper art of zoo animals: giraffes and elephants and friendly looking lions. There is a padded rocking chair, a standard-issue hospital visitor chair, and an uncomfortable looking sofa which clearly folds down into an equally uncomfortable bed.

There is a quiet knock, and at his muttered, “Come in,” the door opens.

A nurse enters, rolling a transparent cot in front of her. It’s got a dome on top, two hand-sized openings on the side. “Hi,” she says as she fixes one of the cords on the cot to the wall. “You must be Mr Holmes. My name is Angie.”

Sherlock reaches out to shake her hand, and it is all he can do not to completely ignore her as his eyes fall on the cot. “Sherlock,” he says absently.

She smiles. “Well, meet your daughter, Sherlock,” she says softly. “Four pounds, thirteen ounces; born at 7:48 this evening.” Sherlock is at the cot in an instant, reaching out to touch the top of the dome. He longs to brush a finger against her tiny cheek. He looks to Angie, who says, “Have you washed your hands?” Sherlock nods, and she indicates the hand sanitiser dispenser on the wall which Sherlock dutifully uses.

Back at the cot, he fits his hand inside the round openings at Angie’s instruction, brushing the skin of his daughter’s arm, her cheek. His chest tightens. His eyes prickle. She’s got a monitor stuck to her chest with tape, and the sight of it sends something twisting in his chest. He glances to the wall of nozzles again and is beyond relieved that there are no more tubes or monitors stuck to her. Her arms and legs are thinner than he’d expected (although, clearly, she is stronger than she appears). The nappy she’s wearing seems to swallow her. His hand covers the length of nearly her entire body. He takes a shaky breath. His daughter wriggles and grunts, and he has never seen or heard anything quite so extraordinary.

Angie motions for him to have a seat in the chair, and he does immediately. Once settled, she rolls the cot close and lifts the dome, wrapping a blanket around the baby and scooping her up, and already, Sherlock’s arms are outstretched. The nurse steps in close, sliding the baby from her arms to Sherlock’s. The nurse reminds him to support her head, demonstrating with her own hands, and he nods. His heart hammers inside his chest as if he’d just finished a run. He’d never held a baby before now.

She is wrapped up tight in a blanket, but he can feel her little legs kicking out against his forearm. One tiny hand has already escaped, and Sherlock brushes her wrinkled knuckles with his finger, skin softer than anything he’d ever felt before. He slides the finger to her palm, and she grasps it with nearly astonishing force.

She is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Sherlock carefully lifts the cap from her head to see what is already quite a lot of curly black hair. He leans down and puts his nose on top of her head, knowing that he’ll need to open up an entire wing of his mind palace just for this alone. He kisses her there, replaces her hat (she must stay warm), and then pulls back a fraction to better see her face. Her eyes look at him, more focused than he would have guessed. They are the same non-colour of most infants’ eyes, but they will one day be brown or blue or green or some other perfect colour. Her tiny face scrunches up into a grimace as she grunts, cheeks pinking. Her skin is the colour of coffee and cream, and her nose is exactly like Sally’s. Her lips and chin are his in miniature.

“Hello,” he tells her, surprised at the lightness in his own voice. He leans down to her face, brushing his lips against her forehead. “Hello there.” Her hand brushes against his cheek, and he can feel that he’s smiling.

When the nurse speaks, Sherlock nearly startles—he’d all but forgotten she was there at all. “Does she have a name?”

A name? They hadn’t even discussed it. Should he wait for Sally to wake up? Surely this is one of those things that merits a conversation. But when he looks at his daughter’s face, he sees a survivor—a little girl who made it through the storm, who is loved and brilliant and beautiful. He remembers, in that moment, a story he should have deleted ages ago—the name of another girl who had survived a storm, and with her own cleverness, found a perfect life. “Viola,” he says. “Her name is Viola.”

===

John watches Sherlock disappear through the door of the waiting room. It takes a couple of beats for him to realise that he’s sort of just standing there in the middle of the room. He nods to himself and returns to his seat, picking up someone’s forgotten copy of the _Times_. It’s fairly recent, less than a week old, and he turns it to what’s left of the sport section. He half-reads an article on cricket that he honestly could not care less about. He finds that he’s read the same sentence four times and gives it up to scrub a hand over his face instead. He doesn’t even like cricket.

His text alert chimes from inside his pocket, and he fishes out his phone.

_Do give Sherlock my_

_best, won’t you._

Number blocked. Mycroft.

John sighs at the screen before dropping the phone back into his pocket. He sits for another hour or more. And then, Sherlock is coming back through the door, looking very odd in a set of blue scrubs, posh leather oxfords at his feet. Odder still is the bright sticker on his shirt that says, “DAD,” and the pink wristband with the barcode that John knows matches the baby’s in the nursery. The minute Sherlock catches his eye, his entire face breaks into the widest, most genuine smile John as ever seen him make in public. John is on his feet in an instant, meeting him with a kiss.

“She’s beautiful, John,” Sherlock says.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” John replies, and he really, really can’t.

“They’ve taken her back to the NICU to do some tests and for monitoring, but she’s so strong, John. So _tiny,_ but she’s fine. She’s _perfect_.”

John can’t help but wrap his arms around him. Sherlock laughs into John’s hair. John laughs into Sherlock’s neck.

John pulls back, feeling his face go a bit more serious. “Any word on Sally?”

Sherlock nods. “In recovery. Intensive Care until they can establish the extent of her head injury. I’ve phoned her sister, Alice. She’ll be here tomorrow morning. Sally had wanted her to come for the birth.”

Sherlock’s voice gets farther away as he speaks, and John realises, as Sherlock must already have, the implications of Sally possibly _not_ waking up. John swallows and forces his lips into a tight smile.

“Are you staying for the night?” John asks.

“No. They’ll have her for monitoring overnight until they’re certain she can maintain her temperature and accept food. They’ve told me to go home, but I can be back early in the morning.” Sherlock pauses a moment, a tentative breath. “With luck, if she continues doing well, you will meet Viola soon.”

“Viola, then?” John asks. “It’s pretty.” Then, hearing the hesitation even in his own voice, “Had you and Sally talked about it? Names?”

“No.” Sherlock’s lower lip comes to press up against his upper one. He hesitates for a moment before continuing. “I suppose nothing is official yet. If Sally doesn’t like it, I—would be willing to—discuss it further.”

John nods, letting the subject drop. He clears his throat. “Home?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath before nodding as well. “Home.”

The late hour lends itself to a quick and quiet taxi ride to Baker Street. And once home, John’s fingers go to his buttons immediately; he doesn’t even wait until he’s got to the bedroom before stripping his bloodied shirt. Sherlock heads for the bedroom while John goes directly for the shower. Sherlock is waiting, towel around his waist when John emerges, and he showers while John cleans his teeth and pulls on his pajamas. And when Sherlock climbs into bed beside John a few minutes later, he slides in close, nuzzling high on John’s arm, just under his shoulder.

Then, Sherlock suddenly pulls away, reaching over to his bedside table for his mobile. John figures he’s going to work while John sleeps, so John settles into his pillow, pulling the duvet up enough to block the light (it’s a well-practised system at this point).

“G’night,” John mutters, but Sherlock nudges him with his toe until he lifts his head.

“No,” Sherlock says. Then, “Look. Here.” Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards; his eyes crinkle. He begins pressing buttons until he pulls up a picture. He hands the phone to John, who looks at it in wonder. The baby is beautiful—very small and a bit thin, but her colour is healthy. She looks like Sherlock (lips, chin, mouth, cheeks), and John’s chest tightens with the reality of it, of _her_. He glides his finger to the left, and there is another photo, clearly taken by the nurse. Sherlock is holding her, that little cheek resting against the pale vee of Sherlock’s chest exposed by the overlarge scrub shirt. Sherlock’s got his head bent down to her, but not so much that John can’t see the look of absolute wonder on his face.

John feels his own absence in the frame like a physical thing. He realises he’s looking at a photo of his own _family_ , and he’s not in it—nowhere close. He wishes he was the one who had been behind the lens, not some stranger. He longs to have seen that look on Sherlock’s face first hand, to fill his nose with the smell of newborn skin.

He looks away from the phone at the feel of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. “The nurse took that last one. Viola had just yawned, and it tickled right here.” Sherlock puts his index finger against John’s clavicle. “Apparently, I began talking to _you_ , and the nurse then insisted on taking the photograph. She’d said you would want to see.”

John feels the outer corners of his eyes fall even as his lip twitches upward. He really _had_ wanted to see. If he couldn’t be there in person, he reckons this is the next best thing. He wonders if he’s in for a lot of _next bests_ in the years to come. He finds that he needs to clear his throat, so he does. “She’s beautiful. I’m glad you showed me.”

John can’t quite make out the expression on Sherlock’s face at this angle, the lamplight too bright around him, making shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and around his eyes. Sherlock hits the button on the phone that blacks out the screen and replaces it on the nightstand and switches the lamp off. Then, he shifts down on the bed, laying his head on the pillow. John blinks as his eyes adjust, and he can somehow see his face more clearly now in the simple glow of filtered light coming through the window.

Sherlock leans in to kiss him, and when John pulls away, assuming it to be a perfunctory good-night kiss, Sherlock holds him in place with a hand round his nape. John hears the surprised little grunt that comes from the back of his own throat at this. Sherlock opens his mouth, tongue against John’s lower lip until John opens his, too. The kiss that follows is all heat—deep and slow and wet, and John’s body begins to respond.

This time it is Sherlock who pulls back, but only for a moment. His lips are on John’s jaw almost instantly, breath hot against his ear. “I will always want you with me, John,” Sherlock says, and John then realises how much of his heart he must have divulged in his face before, without ever having uttered even a word. Sherlock’s voice is deep and low, nearly a growl. “I will always want you,” he repeats. John lurches forward to capture Sherlock’s lips again as his heart pounds inside his chest, climbing nearly into his throat. He’s got his fingers threaded into Sherlock’s hair, and he hooks a leg around Sherlock’s as he urges Sherlock on top of him where the physicality of Sherlock’s want is making itself plain. John needs this, the pressing weight of Sherlock’s body on his. Sherlock grinds their groins together, and they both moan. And then Sherlock does it again. And again.  

John yanks Sherlock’s pajamas down past his knees before getting at his own, and Sherlock finishes the job, getting them both the rest of the way off. Their shirts are the next thing to go, and John’s hands go around to the small of Sherlock’s back, trailing upwards to his shoulder blades as Sherlock’s lips linger over his pulse point before traveling down across his chest. John’s legs fall open, and his hands grope for the drawer of his nightstand. Somehow, he manages to find the tube he needs.

“Please,” he says, and he holds Sherlock’s hand out as he drops the lube into his palm. He lifts his knees, holding himself open. “Please, Sherlock,” he says, voice barely even a whisper, high and needy, but he doesn’t care. He does _need this_. He didn’t even know how much until now. Sherlock’s fingers work him slowly, and it is bliss—but it isn’t enough. “Now,” he says, and Sherlock slicks himself and presses in, hands on the backs of John’s thighs as he holds his legs where he needs them. Sherlock moves, and John’s entire body arches with the physical confirmation of _them_ , Sherlock and himself. It is in each warm point of contact of Sherlock’s fingers on his thighs, in the tickling brush of Sherlock’s fringe against his skin, in the heat thrumming through the very core of them both, in the humidity of their mingled breath. And when Sherlock bends down to kiss him again, John _finally feels_ whole again—completely Sherlock’s, completely himself.

John’s hands grip Sherlock’s arse, urging him on, and Sherlock’s hands wrap around John’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. John can tell that Sherlock is holding back a bit, wants John to come first, and John does—with Sherlock’s name on his lips. Sherlock isn’t long to follow; his last coherent words are “John” and “you” before there is no sound, only an open mouth and heaving breath.

Later, when they settle back down to sleep, John presses himself to Sherlock—thighs, hips, chests—all connected, skin-to-skin. Sherlock’s thumb idly traces the edges of the scar tissue on the back of John’s shoulder, and John’s hand lights just above Sherlock’s hip. The lids of his eyes grow too heavy to lift, so he shuts them, Sherlock’s breathing soft and steady and close. He is right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiona_Fawkes! You've outdone yourself this time! I'm queueing up the soft rock again even as I type this. You cannot dubstep your way out of this. Just face it--there is no escape from The Stewart! *yaycoffee sings* Have I told. You lately. That I love you? Have I told you--there's no one else above you? You fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness. Ease my troubles, that's what you do!
> 
> And SilentAuror: *soft acoustic guitar plays* *yaycoffee sings* You just call. Out my name. And you know where ever I am, I'll come running to see you again. Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call and I'll be there, yeah, yeah, you've got a friend!
> 
> And readers-your comments and kudos really do make writing this story even more of a joy than I could ever express. *REO Speedwagon swells in the background* *yaycoffee sings* And I'm gonna keep on lovin' you! Cause it's the only thing I wanna do! I don't wanna sleep! I just wanna keep on lovin' youuuu!
> 
> Clearly, everyone tonight is getting some of the greatest hits that soft rock has to offer. What can I say--this is the music of my present soul.
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://yaycoffee.tumblr.com/), you know--if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> In all seriousness though, for your kind words and your patience and your encouragement and your readership: Thank you.


	12. Chapter 12

It is still dark when Sherlock wakes with a bit of a start, the events of the previous evening slamming into his consciousness like a speeding train. He closes his eyes, focuses on the warm comfort of John’s knee touching the back of his thigh, one hand resting lightly on his hip. Sherlock settles back into the mattress a bit. John’s breath is coming evenly, warming the space between his shoulder blades. Sherlock turns to check the time at the clock on the table—just after four. He slides out of bed as smoothly as he can manage; he doesn’t want to wake John.

He showers, shaves, and dresses. He leans down to kiss John before he goes, thumb brushing his forehead just under his fringe. John stirs a little.

“Go back to sleep.   I’m going to the hospital.”

“Mmph,” John says. Then, he inhales loudly. “See you later. Love you.” It’s a slow, sleepy slur, and John is already asleep again when Sherlock tells him he loves him back.

The taxi journey is even shorter than the one that took them home last night, London practically a ghost town at this hour. He goes in through the front entrance. The sound of his footsteps echo dully in the nearly deserted lobby; the only other soul is the security guard behind the main desk. He makes his way to the set of lifts that will take him to the nursery. When he arrives at the NICU, he presses the call button and waits. The voice on the intercom answers, and Sherlock says his name, is buzzed through to the nurse’s station. A young man with sandy hair too short for his long face looks up from a computer screen.

“Where would I find my daughter? Viola Donovan-Holmes.” Then, “Sorry. What was your name?” He tries not to wince at the sham in his cadence; he does loathe these pleasantries but knows it may be a while yet before Viola is released. It is best to start learning names.

“Jeremy,” the man says with a smile too friendly for the hour. “I’ll need to scan your bracelet, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock removes his jacket and rolls his shirtsleeve to make it easier. Jeremy holds out a barcode scanner, which beeps softly. Jeremy checks his computer screen and nods. “Follow me, and I’ll show you to Viola’s space.”

“Wait.” Sherlock holds out a hand to Jeremy as he begins to move from behind the desk. “Will Viola be allowed visitors?”

Jeremy looks down at the computer again, moving the mouse, clicking a couple of times. He scans the screen and then looks back to Sherlock. “Yes. She’s had a good night, it seems. Parents and grandparents have twenty-four hour access, and I’ll get you the form for other visitors. They will need to come with a photo ID, and a parent must be with them at all times. Only two adults in the infant space at a time, but we do have a visitor’s room for others to stay in.”

“Right,” Sherlock says. “Good.” Jeremy hands him the form, another piece of paper with the rules and procedures of the NICU, and a pen. Sherlock fills it out, listing John and Mrs Hudson. He thinks about it for a moment more and adds Sally’s sister, Alice to the list. He doesn’t know her surname, _doesn’t know_ so much; how does one do _any of this_? He swallows, takes a breath. He must remember to phone his parents later today.  

Jeremy walks him to the washing station and waits as Sherlock washes his hands before leading him to a different area than he was in last night. The space holds a bank of what almost looks like office cubicles or the partitions in A&E, tiny illusions of privacy for individual families in a large, open space.

Jeremy indicates Viola’s space with a sweep of his hand. “Right in here,” he says.

Sherlock steps in, and there she is, his daughter in her hooded cot, open-eyed and wiggling a little. The rest of the space is almost entirely taken up by a large padded rocking chair. Sherlock can’t help but smile when he sees her. He barely hears Jeremy bid him farewell as Sherlock steps in closer to Viola. He immediately fits his hand into one of the little openings, and brushes the delicate skin on her arm. She turns to him, and he gets his face as close as he can to the plexi-glass. He realises, as her eyes try to focus on him, that he _missed_ her. He angles the chair so he can sit and still reach her.

He traces the lines of her arms and shoulders, brushes a cheek, the shell of her tiny ear. She scrunches her face and sticks her tongue out at him. He laughs lightly. She is quite simply, fascinating. Everything about her is interesting.

He’s only been in for a few minutes when the nurse from last night (Angie? Angie.) comes in.

“Back so soon, Sherlock?” she asks with a smile.

“Can I hold her again?” Sherlock asks immediately.

Angie nods. “Unless her condition deteriorates, you don’t need to ask permission every time,” she says, lifting the hood of the cot. “It’s important for you to hold her, you know, for her to feel you close.” She pulls a blanket from the shelf below it. Viola’s face scrunches up, and she begins to cry—it’s louder than Sherlock would have thought possible of something so incredibly small. Her arms and legs shake and twitch with effort as she fills her little lungs with large gulps of air and _wails_. Angie speaks softly to her, unbothered, even as Sherlock feels his own heart ache in a way it never has before. “Shh, little one. Yes, it’s cold out here, but we’ll get you wrapped up warm. Don’t you worry.”

Sherlock stands and hovers, watching closely, memorising the method as Angie wraps the blanket around Viola, who is still crying. When she steps aside with a pointed look to Sherlock, he steps in and cradles Viola’s head as he lifts her out carefully, bringing her in close to his chest.

“You’re learning already,” Angie says as Viola’s cries begin to fade until she’s quiet again but for the same soft little noises she’d been making before. “She likes being close enough to hear your heartbeat.”

He can manage that, certainly. Sherlock takes a breath, shifts Viola a little so that her ear is closer to his heart. He bends to kiss her head, closing his eyes as her scent fills his nostrils. He sits in the chair, and Angie makes a few notes on Viola’s chart and goes, leaving Sherlock and Viola alone.

Viola’s eyes fall shut after a few moments, and she sleeps. Sherlock memorises her breathing pattern, the sweet high-pitched sound as the air comes in and out of her tiny body. Even in sleep, she wraps her hand around Sherlock’s index finger, and Sherlock rubs her belly under her blanket with the pad of his thumb.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sat there, but it seems like only moments before Angie returns.

“I’m so sorry, but we’re at shift change now, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave for an hour while the new shift comes on—privacy issues for the other patients, you see.”

Sherlock clears his throat and carefully places a still-sleeping Viola back in her cot. When Angie takes the blanket away, he brushes the top of her foot with his index finger before she closes the top again.

Sherlock puts his hands in his trouser pockets and goes. There is a small café just across the street, so he makes his way there. He orders a coffee and pulls out his phone. He texts John, letting him know that he can come visit (doesn’t notice the small hitch at the left corner of his mouth as he does so). He doesn’t expect John to text back immediately; it’s not yet seven. He sips at his coffee and checks his email from his phone. Nothing beyond a five. He deletes as he goes.

Coffee done, inbox dealt with, he checks the time. Hour’s almost up. He walks slowly back to the NICU, doesn’t have to be told this time to stop at the hand-washing station. He meets a couple of new nurses—Greta who is now behind the desk, mid-fifties, divorced, spiked auburn hair, and Kelly, mid-thirties, short, long brown hair, large brown eyes.

A doctor comes by to check on Viola and ask a few questions. He tells Sherlock that Viola is doing remarkably well but will absolutely be in the NICU until she’s considered ‘full-term,’ ten days from now. When he leaves, Sherlock sits with Viola for another hour or more, committing every bit her to memory, letting her little ear rest against his chest where he’d unbuttoned his shirt enough for skin-to-skin contact.

His text alert chimes just after nine, and he checks it straight away. Not John as he’d hoped—Lestrade.

_Any word on Sally?_

Sherlock frowns at the screen. He hadn’t even thought about it. Should he have? Reluctantly, he puts Viola back in her cot and removes her blanket before lowering the hood. He is halfway to putting the blanket in the hamper where he’s watched the nurses put the laundry, when he stops. He remembers something he read once about coma patients and olfactory sense perception. So instead, he folds the blanket to take with him.

He tells Kelly on his way out that he’ll return shortly and asks for directions to the adult Intensive Care Unit. The corridors are bustling now with hospital staff, visitors, and a few patients out on their morning walks, and when he arrives at the ICU, he tells the nurse who he is and asks for Sally’s room. She updates him on her condition—stable but still unconscious, time will tell, it’s still early yet.

He stands outside for a moment and takes a breath. He pushes the door open, and his eyes light on Sally’s motionless form. Her belly has already shrunk down to less than half its size from before. She’s got a cannula at her nose and plastic tubing coming out of her partly-opened mouth, an IV drip set up in her left arm. The blips on the LCD show resting brain activity and a normal heart rate. She could be sleeping, but Sherlock knows she’s not.

“Hello, Sally,” he says, and his voice seems very loud in his ears. He clears his throat. “You really should wake up, you know. Our daughter is perfect. You don’t want to miss that.” Sherlock’s eyes flick to the monitors but they are showing the same, steady rhythms as the last time he looked. He presses his lower lip into his upper one, fidgeting with the blanket in his hand. Without a word, he unfolds the blanket and brings it to Sally’s face, near to her nose, hoping that she can sense it around the cannula.   He thinks about it for a moment and then unfolds the blanket to cover her chest, lifts her hand to fit a bit underneath.

“She looks like you,” Sherlock says. “Your skin, your nose—I think maybe your hair too, but it’s difficult to tell until it grows longer.” Sherlock feels silly, like he’s rambling. He isn’t sure there is a point to whittering on to an unconscious person, but here he is. Doing it.

Sherlock sits in the visitor’s chair, not knowing how long he should stay. How long does one sit with an unresponsive coma patient? He leans over to lift her chart from the foot of the bed and reads, learning nothing new—her pulse and blood pressure statistics, the medicine she’s been given, body temperature. All normal for a woman of Sally’s age, weight, and fitness level. But, she is not sleeping.

When the door opens, Sherlock turns, expecting a nurse or a doctor, but it is neither. This is clearly Sally’s sister, skin a little darker but their facial features are nearly identical, as is their tightly curled hair. Alice is shorter than Sally, rounder, stylishly clothed. He stands.

“Alice,” Sherlock says.

“Sorry,” she replies. “Do I know you?”

“No. I am Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock holds out his hand and watches as the expression on her face goes from open to closed in an instant. She shakes it briefly, adopting the exact same sneer he’s seen on Sally’s face thousands of times. It is then he realises that he hasn’t been on the receiving end of it for some time. He fights the urge to comment.

“Alice Thompson,” she says, coolly. She walks to Sally’s bedside and looks down, reaches out to her but stops herself. Then, she turns around.

“What’s this?” she asks, Viola’s blanket pinched between her thumb and forefinger, as if she’s testing the fabric of a blouse she might want to try.

“I’ve read research that says that coma patients can sometimes register senses of smell. I brought Viola’s blanket.”

Alice blinks, shakes her head, eyes wide as she stares at him. “You did that?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, it didn’t walk over here on its own.”

Alice chuckles and turns back to Sally. “No,” she says. Then she sighs. When she speaks again, it’s softer, almost wistful. “She was so excited about being a mum. Ours was—is—horrible, you know. I think she was looking forward to setting things right.”

Sherlock didn’t know that, quickly files it away for later consideration. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he remains quiet. Alice sits in the chair that Sherlock had been using.

“I’ve listed you on Viola’s visitor’s sheet. If you want to come and see her.”

“Viola?” Alice says. “Sally’d been thinking Chloe.”

“I didn’t know. We hadn’t talked about it.” Sherlock’s text alert chimes again. He leaves the phone in his pocket.

Alice lets out a small, humourless grunt. “Apparently not.” She reaches out again to Sally, this time taking Sally’s hand in hers. “I _would_ like to meet my niece.” She stops to shake her head. “But later. I should be here now.” Her voice softens when she says it again, “I’m going to stay here for now.”

Sherlock nods and turns to go. When he takes one last look at Sally’s room, Alice’s head is bowed as she holds Sally’s hand. She looks as though she is praying.

In the corridor, Sherlock checks his phone. This text is from John, telling Sherlock he’s on his way to the hospital. Sherlock texts back that he’ll meet him in the lobby, even as he’s already winding his way through the corridors back there. John texts back immediately that the taxi’s just pulled up.

====

John hasn’t been in any nursery, NICU or otherwise since his rota back in school. The NICU he remembers from Bart’s was similar to this one, dark and warm and quiet. Unlike the regular nursery, where it is bright and you can nearly _feel_ the celebration in the air, this place is much more reserved. There are no coulorful baskets of flowers or banners or signs; the NICU is sterile, demure, weighty. Sherlock introduces him to the nurse behind the desk, who checks his ID and then stops them at the hand-washing station.

Sherlock walks directly to a cubicle near the middle of the room, and John follows. He can hear his heart beat in his ears. He swallows down the sudden rush of nerves that make his throat feel tight.  He makes and releases a fist once, twice, where he is holding his hand down at his side. Sherlock turns to catch his eye just as John steps fully inside. The space is very small, and he steps in close to Sherlock as he moves toward the cot.

She is there--whole and so very _real_. “Oh, my God, Sherlock,” he says, voice nearly a whisper.  

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “I know,” he says.

“She’s—” John cuts off his own words because he finds that he doesn’t have any at the minute. She is beautiful and tiny and _skinny_. But her colour is good and she’s breathing on her own. She is absolutely perfect. “She looks like you,” John says, and emotion is constricting his throat again. John coughs a little around it. “Beautiful, Sherlock. She’s—”

This time, Sherlock cuts him off with a quick kiss on his mouth. John smiles against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock brushes his nose against Johns before he pulls away, leaning over the cot to lift the lid. John watches, equally amused and amazed at how gentle Sherlock is managing to be as he wraps Viola in a blanket. His hands go round her small body to support her head as he lifts her out, bringing her close to his face.

“Viola,” he says to the baby, and from his tone, he might as well be talking to a thirty year-old. The baby burbles at him a bit. “Meet your—John.” Sherlock looks up to catch his eye for a beat, then he turns back to Viola. “He’s my John, too.” Sherlock walks over to stand very close to John, and John leans in to see the baby.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John says, at a complete loss for what comes next. He feels like his stomach drops out of his body entirely only to smack back in and slam into his chest. He is fighting tears. He lifts a finger to brush along her cheek, unable to help himself from touching the tip of her nose. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“I know,” Sherlock replies.

Kelly clears her throat a bit from where she’d been standing in the doorway. She’s got a bottle in her hand. “Lunch time,” she says. “Thought you might want to have a go at feeding her.”

“Er,” Sherlock says, sort of shuffling in place, clearly lacking any idea what he needs to do.

Kelly is patient. “It will probably be easier if you’re sitting for now.” John moves out of the way as much as he can in the small space. It is extremely crowded. Sherlock takes his seat in the chair. Kelly stands next to him. “Okay,” she says. “You’re going to want to lift her up a bit,” and she shifts Sherlock’s arms so that his positioning is right. “Her head needs to be higher than her legs so that she can swallow properly.”

Sherlock nods, face every bit as serious as it is when he is recording data at the microscope, inspecting clues at a crime scene.

She holds out a bottle in front of her. “Always make sure that the nipple is full of milk, so you’re going to have to keep tilting it up as she drinks.” She demonstrates, tilting it in the air in front of her. “Otherwise, she’ll swallow too much air, and that gives her too much gas.” Sherlock nods again. She uncaps the lid and offers the bottle to Sherlock who takes it from her.

“Now,” Kelly says. “Hold it up to her mouth.” Sherlock does. “That’s right.” Viola’s tongue darts out of her mouth, head tilting away from the nipple.

Sherlock looks panicked. “I’m doing it wrong,” he says, frowning.

“No, it’s fine; you’re doing well,” Kelly says, keeping her tone even and light. “It might take a couple of tries.” _God bless nurses_ , John thinks. She helps him hold the bottle so that Viola will take it, and after a couple more tries, she does.

The look on Sherlock’s face when it happens is one of the most brilliant things John has ever seen. His eyes go wide, and his mouth opens to a tiny _o_ , and then, he laughs—a new one to John’s ears (and here, he’d thought he’d learned all of Sherlock’s laughs long ago). It’s laced with surprise and fascination—adoration. He looks up to John. Apparently satisfied that the feeding is going well, Kelly shifts over and out of the way so John can come to stand next to Sherlock. Kelly doesn’t leave entirely but does stand near the cubicle entrance, allowing them a bit of space. John brushes his hand at the back of Sherlock’s nape before letting it come to rest at his shoulder, and he watches Sherlock and Viola in turns—the soppy smile that never quite leaves Sherlock’s face, and Viola, who is sucking down her formula with gusto, small little murmurs coming from her throat. Her eyes find Sherlock’s, and her hand comes to rest against Sherlock’s where he is holding the bottle.

When the bottle’s nearly halfway done, Kelly instructs him to stop for burping. She walks him through the process, showing him three different ways to hold Viola while doing it. He ends with Viola on his lap, leaning forward a bit on his hand as the other pats her back. John tries not to laugh as this tiny little creature _belches_ like a rugby player. She spits up a little over Sherlock’s hand, and John does laugh at the look on Sherlock’s face then, disgusted and completely at a loss for what to do—hands full of baby and unable to wipe them. Kelly shows him.

“Keep laughing,” Sherlock says. “It’ll be you one day.”

“I don’t doubt it,” John says. Viola finishes her bottle, and Sherlock burps her again. Kelly takes the used blankets and bottle away and leaves them alone for a bit.

Sherlock looks at him, eyes all intense focus. “Do you want to hold her?”

John finds that he really, really does. He nods. Sherlock stands, turning toward him and slides the baby into John’s arms, cradling her head the whole time. “You have to mind her head,” Sherlock instructs.

“I have actually _delivered_ babies, you know.” John deadpans back as he carefully tucks Viola next to his body and takes a seat in the chair. She weighs practically nothing, but she is warm and soft, body stilling as she begins to settle into sleep. “Never held one I loved before, though,” he says honestly, voice barely breaking a whisper. He looks first at Viola and then to Sherlock. Even in sleep, her cheeks scrunch, her tongue comes out to lick her lips.

For half an hour they sit there, just watching her. Sherlock’s hand idly traces the top of John’s shoulder, the back of his arm. “You’re right,” John says. “She is perfect.”

“I know,” Sherlock says.

====

The first thing she registers is pain. She hurts _everywhere_.

“Sally,” a voice says. Female voice. She recognises the voice—from somewhere.

She wills her eyes to open, but she doesn’t get very far with that. It’s so bright. Hurts. She shuts them again, groaning.

“Sally!” the voice says again. And then there is a pressure on her hand—someone is holding it? Sounds of a door opening, footsteps. More hands on her.

“Miss Donovan?” a different voice.

Sally opens her eyes slowly. “Bright,” she tries to say, but it comes out in a garble. Her throat hurts. Where the fuck is she? The light behind her closed eyelids goes a bit dimmer, and she tries again to open them. It still hurts, but it’s better. Her head is splitting, and her abdomen hurts every time she takes a breath. “Hurts,” she says.

“Sally,” the voice says again, and now she can see a bit. Sister. Alice. But why? Alice lives far away.

“Alice lives far away,” she croaks. “York.”

“That’s right,” Alice says, squeezing her hand. “I do. But I came down for a visit.”

“Don’t try to talk too much, Miss Donovan,” the other voice says. “You’ve had a tube down your throat to help you breathe. It’s gone now, but you’re throat’s going to take some time to heal.”

Sally shuts her eyes. “Where am I?”

“You’re in hospital,” Alice says. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sally tries very hard to remember anything. She shakes her head. She wants to open her eyes again, but she can’t. Too tired. She just wants to sleep.

She sleeps.

\----

When she opens her eyes again, the lights in the room are off, but it still seems painfully bright. Her throat feels very dry.

“Water,” she manages in a hoarse whisper that sounds nothing at all like her voice.

“Right here, Sally.” Alice says. She’s holding a straw to her lips, and Sally takes a sip. It feels like liquid satin going down her throat.

“Mm,” She groans, and she tries to focus on her surroundings. Hospital. Why is she in hospital?

“Are you going to stay with me this time, Sis?” Alice asks. “You’ve had me really worried, you know.”

Sally doesn’t understand. “What?”

“You’re in hospital.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Sally replies. “Why?” She reaches down to smooth a hand over her belly. Her hands don’t fall where she expected them to; her stomach is nearly flat. It’s not right. It’s _not right_. She hears the monitors beeping out the rising rhythm of her heartbeat. “Oh, Jesus! The baby!” She tries to sit up, but her head feels near to exploding inside her skull. A nurse rushes in, lays a hand lightly on her shoulder. She doesn’t give a shit, pressing against it. “My baby!”

“Miss Donovan,” the nurse says. “You are going to have to calm down. Your baby is fine.”

Sally turns to her with a glare. “What? Where is she!”

“Sally, please calm down,” Alice says, and the note of panic in her voice makes Sally take a breath. And then another.

“Where. Is. My. Daughter?”

“She’s healthy and in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit,” the nurse tells her. Her voice is irritatingly calm, and Sally wants to punch her. She makes a fist at her side.

“I want to see her. Take me to her _now_ ,” Sally demands. She sits up further and tries to fight the urge to vomit but fails, dry-heaving until the taste of bile blooms bitterly at the back of her tongue.

“Miss Donovan,” the nurse says again. “You have been unconscious for four days. You need to take it easy. Your daughter is safe, but you have sustained a rather serious head trauma and a stab wound to your abdomen.”

“She’s beautiful, Sally,” Alice says. Her hands are gentle on Sally’s shoulders as she meets Sally’s eyes.

Sally leans back to the bed, now able to isolate the feeling of pain from a general feel-like-warm-shit-all-over to specific points in her head and at spots both high and low on her abdomen. She feels so tired, the simple act of sitting up has done her in. She runs fingers over her gown to feel the slightly raised edges of a bandage on her side below her ribs and then down lower. “She is?” Sally says. “You’ve seen her?”

“Yes. She’s perfect.”

“I want to see her,” Sally says, but her eyes are closing on their own accord. “Hold her,” she adds, but it comes out in a slur.

“Soon,” she hears Alice’s voice say, and it is the last thing she’s aware of before she submits to sleep again.

\----

The next time she’s awake, she remembers where she is: Hospital. Baby is safe. She wants to see her baby.

“Alice?”

“Right here, Sally.” Alice’s face appears closer to hers as Alice leans forward in the chair she’s been sitting in. Her eyes are warm and soft and comforting. When she holds the straw to Sally’s lips, Sally takes a sip.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Two and a half hours.” Jesus, it seemed like five minutes.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly three in the afternoon,” Alice replies. “You’ve had a couple of visitors—Detective Inspector Lestrade and Molly, who came by with a bag of things from your flat. And Sherlock.”

“Sherlock was here?”

“He’s practically living over in the NICU, but he’s come at least once a day to check on you.”

“Really?” Sally asks. She doesn’t know exactly why she finds that so surprising, but she does. Hard to picture, she reckons.

“He’s certainly not what I expected. Sort of like an extremely rude alien, but you’re right—he has been around. I met his partner, too—John. He seems nice.”

Sally shrugs. “Questionable judgment, choosing Sherlock Holmes.”

“Glass houses, Sis.”

“One time. I was drunk,” Sally says. “So _very_ drunk. And possibly insane.”

Alice laughs. “The doctor came by as well. He’ll be by again later this afternoon, he said. He said you could go visit the baby, possibly tomorrow. They have to make sure you won’t conk out again or something.”

Sally sighs, fighting tears. Her head hurts. Her whole body hurts. Her heart hurts. She wants to see her daughter. “I don’t want to wait.”

Alice takes her hand. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry, Sally. But, she’s in good hands here.”

Sally nods, the simple act making her brain bang dully against the side of her skull. She feels sick again, so she closes her eyes.

\----

It took more than two days of in-and-out of sleep before Sally could stay awake for more than five or ten minutes at a time. She still doesn’t remember the incident that got her here at all, only vague memories of the morning before. The doctor tells her that she’s lucky to have retained as much as she has done, and that she’s still able to function normally. He tells her that as the swelling in her brain continues to go down, she’ll feel better, be able to stay awake longer.

She’s up to a couple of hours now, and Alice has been with her the whole time. She’s done so well that they moved her out of ICU and into a regular room earlier that day. Now, Alice is reading some novel out loud to her—Sally is finding it hard to pay attention, but the cadence of her sister’s voice is soothing.

There is a soft knock on the door, but the nurse doesn’t wait for a reply before entering.

“Hello, Sally,” she says. Sally likes this one—she is friendly but not overly chatty, efficiently getting on with taking Sally’s vitals and checking the IV drip and doing whatever else it is that they do when they come in.

“Hi,” Sally says. “Can I see my daughter today?” She’s asked every day, and they’ve always told her _soon_.

The nurse’s face breaks into a wide smile. Sally hopes that’s a good sign. “You can. Are you feeling up for it now, or would you like to wait until you’ve slept a bit?”

“Now, thank you,” Sally says, and she sits up. It’s easier now, her headache has ebbed to an annoying always-there throbbing at her temple, but she can move—has taken herself to the loo and everything (thank God that bloody catheter is gone), even managed to have a wash (not a real shower, but whatever—she’s not smelling herself anymore) and change into her very own pajamas.

The nurse clicks her pen closed and clips it on the inside neckline of her scrubs. “I’ll go fetch a chair, then.”

Sally cannot wipe the smile from her face. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, and Alice finds her slippers. When the nurse returns with the chair, Alice wishes her well and kisses her cheek before nipping back to Sally’s flat for a shower and a change of clothes and to pick up a few things Sally said she wanted. Sally hasn’t felt this awake since before hospital. Her heart is pounding in her ears, and she’s having a hard time keeping her hands from fidgeting.

NICU is apparently on the other side of the universe from where she’s been, and the journey requires several long corridors and a lift. Her skin is jumping by the time they are buzzed through the NICU doors. If she could, she’d be out of that chair and _running_. The NICU nurse scans the barcode on the bracelet at her wrist and helps her wash her hands, which is apparently NICU policy.

Her entire body is thrumming when the nurse wheels her into a little room just off the corridor. Her heart sinks when she sees the room is empty.

“Your chair won’t fit in the infant space, I’m afraid. The nurse will bring her in shortly. And in here, you will have a bit more privacy than the main floor.” This room is smaller than a normal hospital room, but there is a small sofa, a visitor chair, and even a large, padded rocking chair. The nurse helps her move from the wheelchair and into that one before she leaves Sally alone. Sally drums her fingers against the armrest of the chair. Her angle is not quite right; the stitches from her stab wound feel like they’re pulling. She shifts her body to try and make it a bit better.

Each minute feels like an age, but eventually, there is a knock at the door. A nurse is coming in, backside first, wheeling a hooded cot behind her. Sally’s heart leaps into her throat. She doesn’t even try to swallow it down. Sherlock steps in just after the nurse, and Sally honestly doesn’t know if she’s annoyed or relieved.

“Sally,” he says. “Good of you to join us,” he says. His lips are curled into what might pass as a smile. Sally returns it.

“Hello, Miss Donovan,” the nurse says, friendly as she lifts the hood from the cot. All Sally can see from this angle are little flashes of legs and arms. The baby cries a bit when the lid lifts, as the nurse steps aside to let Sherlock wrap her in a blanket. He murmurs softly to her the entire time. Something about it makes Sally’s heart ache—not only the cry (which is bloody awful and makes her breasts hurt) but seeing Sherlock already know her, how to talk to her, how to sooth her. Her cry is all but gone by the time he lifts her out of the cot. It is surreal and unsettling and in the oddest, most contradictory way, comforting.

Sherlock’s got his head bent in close to the baby’s as he walks her to Sally. He kisses her on the forehead before bending to slide her into Sally’s arms.

“Meet our daughter, Sally,” Sherlock says.

Sally is unable and unwilling to stop the tears as they come. She has never been this happy in her entire life. Her heart might burst from it—she can feel it pressing against her ribs. “Oh, my God,” she says, taking in her beautiful face, her large eyes, her full cheeks and her tiny little nose. She brushes a finger over her nose and the bow of her lips, delicate and wonderful. She pulls her up to her face, kisses her head and her cheeks. She smells like home after too long away, like everything good. “I love you so, so much!” She did not know it was possible to feel this much love for another person. She lifts her hand to kiss her tiny fingers where they wrap around her own. “I love you,” she says. “My beautiful, perfect, wonderful baby.”

Sherlock clears his throat, and Sally lifts her head to him. He hesitates but says, “Viola. I’ve been calling her Viola. Alice said you had been thinking something else, and we hadn’t discussed it, and when I saw her, I thought—”

“Viola is beautiful,” Sally says, cutting him off. She turns back to her baby. “Yes, she is. She is beautiful. Aren’t you?” She’s shaking her head playfully, something she’d seen other mums do but didn’t even have to think about before doing it herself. Her daughter—Viola—is cooing at her, puts a tiny hand on her lips and Sally coos back against them. _Ba ba ba ba ba_. She can’t stop kissing her, holding her close. But too soon, her eyes begin to close no matter how hard she fights against it, and she is aware only of the feel of her daughter’s cheek against her breastbone, warm and safe, and though her stitches pull and her head feels fuzzy, her pain is all but gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Fiona_Fawkes for the beta! And thank you so much to 1butterfly_grl1 who has been so kind as to give me the inside scoop on everything NICU! Hats off to you, ladies--truly!!! I am so grateful.
> 
> That said, I'm doing as much research as I can and asking all the questions I can think of, but you are still looking at some Hollywood Medicine here. I'm trying to get all the details right, but please forgive me for any glitches in my knowledge of the system. And I am open, certainly, to your insight and expertise if you are someone who Knows Things--just drop me an email or tumblr ask or leave a note in the comments. 
> 
> Thank you lovely readers for your time and for your comments and kudos. *big squishy cuddles*
> 
> Also--looks like we're nearing the end of this journey. I expect the next chapter to be the last one. *queues up Boyz II Men* *soft keyboard stylings of "End of the Road" start to play* BUT NOT YET--ONE MORE CHAPTER!! *It's unnatural! You belong to me! I belong to you!* HUUUUSHHHH!! IT'S NOT TIME YET--TURN IT OFFFFF! ;-)
> 
> Also--feel free to follow me over on [Tumblr](http://yaycoffee.tumblr.com/).


	13. Chapter 13

Sally steps out of the shower, leaning heavily on Alice. Her wet forearm slips a little under Alice’s fingers, but Alice’s grip tightens, hand coming sure and steady around her waist, keeping her upright. That small jerk was enough to pull at her stitches, sending a spike of pain—red, white, sharp—to her abdomen. She winces, sucking air in through her teeth.

“Steady, Sis,” Alice says. Sally drops her head and takes a breath (not too deep). She gives it another moment before holding her hand out for a towel. Using the corner, she gingerly pats at her sutures—small line at the spot just below her ribs, at the larger line from her c-section, before wrapping the thing around her. She looks to Alice, nodding that she’s ready and takes Alice’s arm once again for the monumental eight-step journey to her bedroom.

There, Alice helps her cover the c-section wound with gauze and tape before getting her feet into the leg-holes of her knickers, sliding them up to her knees where Sally is finally able to finish the job herself. She’s already so tired of this (always so fucking _tired_ these days), of needing help with _everything_ —showering, getting to the loo, making a bloody cup of tea. Having a wee without someone to listen in is not the sort of luxury she’d ever thought she would pine after, but oh, does she ever.

After a quick trip back to York for a few days while Sally was still in hospital, Alice had arranged to come back to London for another week after Sally had been released home. At the time, Sally had tried to wave her off, told her she could manage just fine on her own. But, even the climb up the six steps that led to her front door from the taxi felt like climbing a bloody mountain, every stitch screaming, every muscle protesting. Alice didn’t try to hide the smug curl of her lip as she helped Sally through the door on that first day, and Sally had just rolled her eyes— _Yes, yes, you were right. As ever, big sister_.

Just as she finishes pulling a loose tee shirt over her head, fighting with her arms to get them in the sleeves, she hears her text alert go. The phone is across the room on her dresser, miles away, but Alice fetches it for her. It’s from Sherlock:

_V being released this afternoon._

_Coming?_

Of course she’s bloody coming, she thinks as the pulse starts to pound in her ears, her vision begins to blur. Her daughter is coming home! As she texts Sherlock back, she imagines what it will be like—Viola half a room away instead of across town, home where Sally can listen to her breathing and feel the softness of her brand new skin under her fingertips. She looks at the empty cot against the opposite wall and sighs, and smiles.

“What’s got you so happy then?” Alice asks.

“Viola’s coming home,” Sally replies. Alice hugs her, smiles with her, but when they break away, Sally notices the fall of her face.

“What?”

Alice clears her throat. “I’m so sorry, Sally, but I absolutely _have_ to get back home tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out with Sherlock or Molly or something—I don’t want to leave, but I’ve got to.”

Sally feels her own face fall a bit. Alice is right—she’s given up so much time with her own family to stay here, to be here when Sally needed her most.

“Alice,” Sally says, forcing a smile onto her features. “You’ve done so much, but I know—I _really_ do now. Your family needs you.” Sally doesn’t know what she’s going to do. Christ, she can’t even put on her knickers without help. How in fucking fuck is she going to take care of an infant?

When Alice’s hand finds hers, Sally realises that her gaze had shifted back to the cot—she hadn’t even noticed what she was looking at (was she looking at anything?). Sally brushes a thumb along the back of Alice’s hand. “Thank you,” she says. These are the only words she has.

===

John is holding Viola, sitting in the large padded rocking chair in their space at the nursery. Sherlock watches them as he shoots a text off to Sally. Her response is immediate:

_Of course I’m bloody coming. Will_

_be there in an hour. Don’t you dare_

_leave without me._

Seems pointless for Sally to come all the way to hospital just to turn right back around, but he supposes this _is_ something of a milestone. Nevertheless, he’ll wait. He must, actually because the doctor hasn’t been around to officially release Viola yet. He should be in sometime before lunch, is all anyone will tell him.

He perches on the arm of the chair next to John, sliding his fingers through the short fringe at his nape. “Sally will be here in an hour.”

“All right?” John asks, looking at him with something that might be concern. Why is John asking? Why shouldn’t he be all right?

“Of course,” he responds. He decides to go over the details of a level-six internet case that had come in yesterday, telling John about the missing painting, the two most likely culprits. John helps him talk it through, gives him space to think it through out loud, offers ideas which, while mundane, help him to work through the facts in a way that might actually explain who did it and how.

It seems like only minutes when Sally and Alice join them, John granting Sally the spot in the rocking chair and joining Sherlock as he goes to the lounge for a cup of tea. They return to the infant area when Sally texts that the doctor has arrived.

From there, it’s all very quick: papers signed, hugs from the staff, photos taken.

They all walk to the kerb together, Alice wheeling Sally in a chair that the nursery staff found for her. Sally is holding Viola in her carrier, and they wait in the short queue for a taxi. John helps Sally in, and they all climb in after.

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock says.

“What?” Sally says. “You’re not going to escort your daughter on her first day home?” Her eyebrows are raised; she looks truly scandalised.

Sherlock shakes his head, not comprehending. “Of course I am. We’re going to Baker Street. That _is_ home.”

All three other pairs of eyes turn on him. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Alice is leaving tomorrow—obvious. Sally can’t even manage to walk as far as to the nursery to the street without assistance. Sally’s flat has only one bedroom. Baker Street has two, one of them currently unoccupied. The solution is clear—Sally and Viola will stay at Baker Street until Sally is recovered, during which time she can look for a larger flat close by.” He turns to Sally without missing a beat, “I know you had thought to wait until the baby was older, but honestly—what is the point of waiting? Your original plan was based on finances, but finances aren’t a concern anymore. I’ve even worked it out with Mycroft so you won’t have to do any of the packing.” He takes a breath and keeps talking. “John has his work at the surgery, but that’s only part-time, and I am taking on some simple cases, most of which can be done from home, making me the perfect assistant care-giver to my daughter. When John and I both have to be out, Mrs Hudson or Molly will be able to help—they’ve both said as much at least a dozen times, and—” Sherlock pauses a minute to shut his eyes, shake his head once as he wraps his brain around what he’s about to say. “My _mother_ will be in next week. We’ll go to Baker Street now and get everyone _settled in_ , and John and I will go to Sally’s flat to get the things you and Viola might need for tonight, and we can get the rest of your things sorted as needed over the coming days.”

John’s mouth is open. He looks a bit—annoyed. Why? Did he say something wrong? Sally is blinking at him with a similar expression. Viola shoves a fist in her mouth and burbles around it. Perhaps this is something that merited a discussion sooner? Before contrition sets in, though, Sherlock holds fast to his plan. Discussion or no—this _is_ the only sensible solution. He smirks when no one has anything to refute it.

“Viola’s cot and clothes, nappies— _all_ her things—are at my flat,” Sally says, voice steely.

“We’ve got a cot at Baker Street—and a changing table, a dresser, _and_ nappies. You aren’t the only one who’s been preparing, Sally.”

“All that’s in the upstairs room, Sherlock,” John says. “Sally can’t manage those stairs multiple times a day.”

“So, we’ll move the cot and changing table to our room. Sally can stay there, and we can stay in your old room.”

Sally crosses her arms across her chest. She takes a breath, looks to Alice, then to Viola—and after a long moment, she says, “Fine.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. The taxi comes to a stop. “We’re here.”

===

When John wakes, he turns his head to the bedside clock. It’s already very bright in the room even though the hour is early. That’s the worst part about summertime, he thinks. Can’t ever get a proper lie in. His skin feels a bit clammy where Sherlock’s arm is lying across his waist, and he shifts a bit to pull back the duvet. He’s not ready to get up yet, but it’s warm. He fits a hand behind his head and looks at the ceiling. _Today’s the day_ , he thinks.

“Stop smiling,” Sherlock grumbles, voice rough with sleep and muffled by the pillow. “It’s putting me off my sleep.” With his head still pushed into the pillow, he smoothes his hand from where it had been resting on John’s hip up over his ribs and chest, and then further up his neck, over his chin and finally to his mouth, where he lays it flat. It only makes John smile wider against Sherlock’s palm. He licks out, tongue making its way between his middle and ring fingers. Sherlock’s leg twitches where it’s resting next to his. He hooks an ankle around John’s calf and slides in closer.

“Can’t help it,” John says when he looks up to see Sherlock’s face hovering above his own. He leans up to kiss his mouth, letting his hands run down Sherlock’s back until they light at his waist. He lets his fingers play at the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, pleased with the little groan from Sherlock’s throat. “My last opportunity to shag you in this bed,” he says, pushing Sherlock’s pants down as far as he can reach.

Sherlock pulls away to smile back at him. “Promises, promises,” he says, and plants a kiss, wet and loud at the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet. He rocks against John, and then it’s John’s turn to groan. It’s been far too long; his body is reacting more quickly than he really wants. But he’s got used to quick and efficient over the past six weeks. Sherlock’s lips make their way down his torso, leaving a sloppy wet line over his chest, at his nipples, down to his navel. Sherlock slides off his boxers, and John gasps when Sherlock’s lips close around the head of his cock, one hand threading through the curls on the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock sucks, and John moans—loudly.

Sherlock pulls off and smiles against his thigh. “Shh,” he says against John’s skin. John knows better—he does. But, it has been so long. Sherlock nips at his thigh and slides back up his body to kiss him, tongue hot and greedy in his mouth. John sucks at it, draws Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth, and Sherlock wraps a hand around them both. “Shh,” he says again as he begins to work them.

They move together, gasping, panting, breathing each other’s air. It’s been too long. John sees stars and comes, and Sherlock stifles his shout with another kiss, coming only seconds later. John kisses his cheek, open-mouthed and uncoordinated, as they come down. Sherlock settles against him, heedless of the mess.

“That was,” John breathes, still trying to get his breath back.

“Fast,” Sherlock finishes, nipping a little at his jaw.

“Mm,” John agrees. “But _good_.”

Sherlock kisses his chin. “Yes,” he agrees. John feels Sherlock’s chest expand against his own when he sighs.

“You all right?” John asks, threading his fingers again through Sherlock’s curls, thumb rubbing circles at his temple. Sherlock sighs again.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Sherlock replies, lips quirking into a sad little smirk. He rests his head on John’s chest, just under his shoulder

“That’s okay,” John says. “It’ll be a pretty big change for all of us.”

Sherlock hums.

Sherlock groans against his neck and reaches over to the bedside table for some tissues. He swipes at John’s messy torso first, then at his own, dropping the tissues into the bin on the other side of the bed.

“Talk to me,” John says, grabbing him by the wrist, pulling him back down to his side. He smoothes a hand up and down Sherlock’s arm while he gives Sherlock some time.

Sherlock sighs, shakes his head. When he speaks, it’s to the ceiling. “I’m not good at this sort of thing,” Sherlock says. He waves a careless hand in front of his face. “ _Feelings_.”

“I know,” John replies.

“I,” Sherlock begins. He takes a breath before continuing, but his words get lost in the sudden noise coming from the baby monitor. Viola’s awake.

They quickly put on some pajamas and head downstairs. Sherlock heads directly into the downstairs bedroom, pausing only for a perfunctory knock before entering. John listens to him and Sally exchange good mornings as he starts the kettle, pops some bread in the toaster.

On the way to the bedroom, John nearly bumps right into Sally in the corridor outside the bathroom.

“Morning,” John says. “There’s toast and tea in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” Sally says. Then she smirks at him. “ _Really_ good morning for you.” At John’s blush, she adds in a stage whisper, “That bedroom is right above this one, you know.” John opens and then shuts his mouth, but Sally just laughs and heads to the kitchen. “Sherlock’s changing a rather disgusting nappy—enter in there at your own risk,” she calls.

“Ta,” John calls back but heads into the bedroom anyway. He finds Sherlock fighting with a dirty nappy, trying to get what looks to have been an _impressive_ mess contained. He gets the tabs closed but is still making a face as he gets the thing into the Sangenic.

“She’s so small, John,” Sherlock says, pulling wipe after wipe from the container to clean up Viola, who for her part, is happily babbling from the top of the changing table. “You’re a doctor. How is this even possible?”

“She’s just making sure to make her last morning here memorable.”

“Well,” Sherlock says, looking down at Viola, brushing his nose over her forehead. “Well done, you.” Viola makes a little hitching sound at the back of her throat and puts her hand on Sherlock’s cheek. John watches, unable to stop the smile, as Sherlock turns his head to kiss it before tickling down her arms to her belly, where he tickles some more before blowing a raspberry. He does up her fresh nappy and pulls a little onesie out of the dresser—pink with an embroidered bumble bee on the front.

“Time for some breakfast, I think,” John tells her as he scoops her up with a kiss to the top of her head. Then he turns to Sherlock. “You too,” he says.

“Fine,” Sherlock answers.

In the kitchen, Sally’s sat at the table reading the paper, and John holds Viola while Sherlock heats up a bottle and pours them both a cup of tea. They discuss the weather and the string of robberies in Croyden. In a practised system, Sherlock feeds the baby, and Sally goes to take a shower. When she’s done, John goes, and then Sherlock—everyone taking turns with Viola while the others dress. It could be any other morning, but John notices the downturn in the lines around Sherlock’s mouth and eyes when he thinks no one is watching.

Sherlock holds Viola as she sleeps for her morning nap, and John helps Sally with her bags. Viola wakes, and Sherlock changes her again, and then it is time. Sally rings for a taxi, and Mrs. Hudson comes up to kiss the baby and pushes a container of homemade scones into Sally’s hands.

At the kerb, John loads Sally’s things, and Sherlock fusses with the fastenings of the carrier seat.

Once everything is settled, Sally turns to them. “I guess we’ll be off, then.” Sherlock looks as though he’s been kicked.

John lays a hand against his back, and Sherlock leans into him. Sherlock manages to nod once, and John smiles. “You’re always welcome,” he says. Sherlock holds the door as Sally climbs inside.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says, rolling her eyes, but her face is warm. “We’re just going up the next street. Four minutes. Only worth the taxi because of the luggage.”

Sherlock sniffs, nods again. John feels something in the back of his own throat tighten. He clears his throat and manages, “We’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“Good bye, Sally,” Sherlock says, and he shuts the door. He bangs a hand on the top of the cab once, and they drive away. John stays with Sherlock at the kerb, even after the taxi has turned the corner, out of sight.

Eventually, Sherlock turns to him, burying his face into his neck. John wraps his arms around his waist, holds him for a minute before pulling back a bit. “C’mon then,” he says. “We’ve got a client coming in an hour.” Sherlock nods, and they go back inside together.

===

When Sally opens the door to her new flat, it smells of new carpeting, new paint. She has the cabbie put her luggage in the lounge and pays him. When she shuts the door after him, she turns into the space that holds all of her things. Even her pictures are already hung. She hadn’t had to do a thing.

She’s been here before, but not like this. Last time she’d seen it, it was empty and very beige. It could not look more different now. She checks on Viola, still asleep in her carrier on the floor of the lounge, and she notices the quiet. She savors it, letting her eyes close for a moment—no rattling of glass in the kitchen, no muffled telly from downstairs, no hushed bickering that turns into snogging. It’s odd how used to it all she’d got, and she’s fairly sure she’ll miss it in time, but for now, she lets herself smile. She’s on her own again, and it feels _really_ bloody good.

She goes exploring—first the kitchen, where she opens the cupboards to find all her things, far more organised than she ever would have done herself. There’s even food in the fridge. The bathroom has towels and soap and toilet roll, her duvet is on her bed, and her clothes are hung neatly in the wardrobe.

She has to stifle a gasp when she opens the door of the room next to hers. It’s painted in the softest silvery lavender above white wainscoting, and all of Viola’s things have been expertly arranged with some very lovely additions—a shelf already full of books, soft lamps, sweet framed line drawings of nursery rhyme scenes, a delicate moon-and-stars mural over the cot. Under the window, there is a beautiful stuffed armchair and ottoman. She can’t help but sit in it to see if it’s as comfortable as it looks. It is. And, on the table next to her, there is a pot near to bursting of beautiful little purple flowers, laced through with white. Violas, she realises. They are violas.

==End==

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, kids. In the timeless words of Shania Twain--looks like we made it. This is the last chapter. 
> 
> I just have to shout out ALL THE PRAISES to the lovely, marvelous, wonderful, beautiful, and amazing Fiona_Fawkes, who was just an endless source of encouragement, good ideas, and when I needed it, wrist-slapping ;-) This story is so much better than it ever had a hope of being without her. Seriously--she freaking rocks.
> 
> Also, to SilentAuror, who has been an amazing friend and support as well--thank you so much for keeping me motivated and talking me down from a ledge or two along the way.
> 
> And, readers--especially those of you who have taken the time to let me know that you've enjoyed the story with a sweet comment or a kudos--I just. I--am floored by you. You have made this a joy. Thank you so, so, SO much!
> 
> And finally--though this story is complete, there will be more in this universe. If you want to keep up with the goings-on in the Baker's Yeast universe, please subscribe to the "Knows His Own" series. Future stories will likely not be this kind of novel-length WIP. I have a few little domestic snapshot-type things that I'd like to write out that just didn't fit in narratively with this story, and there will be some moving-forward and growing with this little unconventional family as well, but I don't really know what shape that will take yet.


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